


The King Commands

by Infam



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Post-The Battle of the Blackwater, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-09-09 14:01:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 36,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8893405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Infam/pseuds/Infam
Summary: Joffrey invents a new game and Sandor is left to ponder who his true master really is.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Always Find Me Here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/452467) by [wildsky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildsky/pseuds/wildsky). 



> Drawing inspiration from all the wonderful sansan fiction in general, and “Always Find Me Here” by wildsky in particular, this is my take on the 'forced sex-scenario', which lands this story squarely in the dub-con/non-con genre. In other words, the warnings are there for a reason. Happy reading ;) 
> 
> Sansa is aged up to seventeen.

The stupidity, the childish incomprehension, the unmatched cruelty that no longer shocked anyone; it was all written plainly across Joffrey's features. But for the first time Sandor saw the madness, the utter derangement of the King, his lord and charge. He saw it, not in the words he screeched, nor the meaning behind them. It was his expression that finally drove the realization home for true. In some ways he'd known for a long time, though he'd never really dwelt on it, never really examined the idea. Now there was no evading the truth staring him (actually, screaming him) in the face; Joffrey was mad. As mad as they come, as mad as Aerys. A second mad king. It was a sad thing, really, and maybe a tiny part of him had allowed himself to feel bad for the utterly broken boy, if not for the consequences of his madness.

His reluctant attention had been drawn from pleasant recollections of a certain red-headed, hot-blooded whore by Joffrey's unpleasant screech.

"Dog!"

Fingers flexing, mouth twitching, he inclined his head in subjugation. Gods, how it stung. 

"I'm bored."

The throne room looked a battlefield; the closest brave King Joffrey would ever get one. Corpses lay strewn across the floor. He would have to guess at their number, their remains so utterly defiled that there was no telling which body-part belonged where. The dogs were panting, licking their wet snouts. Paw prints and puddles of blood stretched from the doors, right up to the slippered feet of the King. They dangled over the edge of the throne – still too tall for the boy – swinging back and forth. Like a child. Though in truth Joffrey was no boy any longer. Certainly not a child. One of the mutts licked his hand, leaving bloody streaks on his skin, before Joffrey drove his dagger through it's eye. 

Sandor remained impassive. There was no need to speak. It would not be welcome. 

"I want to play a different game."

He let the words hang there, cumulating expectation and dread. His kingsguard-brothers shifted, their agitation making them sway gently on the spot before Joffrey ended their unease.

"Bring me Sansa."

***

Joffrey had never gotten 'round to marrying the girl. And cruel as Joffrey's predilections were, they didn't run the way of sexual assault. Thank the gods. He surely got turned on by violence and misery, but he'd only raped her a handful of times before loosing interest. It was a small mercy. It was also sickening to hear her refer to it as such; only raped a handful of times, what a mercy. 

He'd offered to take her away again after that first time. Even offered to kill Joffrey for her. She never told him why she declined, never confided her reasons for staying. He knew his though, and was pretty sure she knew them too. Yet as he approached her chambers, one step heavier than the next, he wondered at how long that reason would hold. With Joffrey's current state, any day could be her last. Maybe he should simply kidnap her. He would have, ages ago, only he knew she must have her reasons to stay, to endure, even though it would most likely mean her life. 

Peering at him from the darkness of her chambers, it took a moment before she recognized him. The windows had been boarded up two moons ago, every candle removed. She lived in complete darkness now. Quite literally. Shielding her eyes with the back of her hand, she groped around with the other, allowing him to take it and guide her into the hallway. 

"What does he want?"

Her voice was raw, scratchy from lack of use. Joffrey had been 'kind' these past couple of weeks. 

"To play."

She nodded as if that explained it all. Lowering her hand from her face she blinked at him a couple of times before the mask of indifference slid into place. She was getting frighteningly good at that. 

“Is he in a good mood?”

“Bored.”

But even the implications following that word was not enough to make her mask slip. Not even here, in front of him. 

Tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow, he guided her down the hallway. Her steps were wobbly and uneven, her eyes still not adjusted to the light. He only hoped it would last; no need for her to see the throne room in it's current state. 

They proceeded in silence, the only sounds the jingling of his armor and Joffrey's steadily growing laughter. When they reached the throne room, her hand slid from his elbow and into his own in an automatic movement. They both knew what to do and how to pretend. Grasping her wrist, he tugged her after him, entering the fray. 

The King spotted them at once.

“You're here. Good!”

Still laughing wildly, he jumped off the throne and gestured to them.

“Follow me. No, Boros, you stay here. I've got no need of you. For this I only require the Hound.”

Oh, what joy it was to be the King's favorite. The corner of his mouth twitched wildly. He could only pray it didn't show. But then, Joffrey had never been very observant. He led them from the hall with a giddiness to his step that was, quite frankly, bloody disturbing. 

“I have a treat for you, Dog,” he informed them as they crossed the courtyard towards Maegors Holdfast. “One that I know you will like.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

“Oh, there's no need to thank me yet. But you will dog, you will.”

Joffrey leveled a gleeful look at Sansa, who thankfully had the presence of mind to look scared, though he doubted much scared her anymore. She'd confided to him one night that she didn't think her life could possibly become any worse, and that she drew a strange sort of comfort from that. He didn't have the heart to tell her how utterly mistaken she was. Time was, he would have. Gleefully, and perhaps in a bit too much detail. But there was no point anymore. Maybe he'd become just as defeated as she, just as resigned to his role.

Joffrey was giddy. Closing the doors of the royal chamber behind him, he saw the little pricks hands tremble in anticipation, the front of his breeches bulging ominously. 

“I've created a game,” he announced, pouring himself a glass of wine, red liquid splattering everywhere. “It's called 'The King Commands'.”

It was hardly a game. It was life. Though to the inbred cunt there was probably no difference. Pinching Sansa's wrist gently, she took the cue and let out a frightened whimper. Good girl. If they ever got out of this nightmare, she would no doubt make a world-class mummer. Joffrey looked pleased, sinking into a chair, thought he was too high-strung to pull off the air of superior calm he was aiming for. 

“It's quite simple. Even someone as stupid as you will be able to play.”

“T-thank you, Your Grace.”

She followed up the words with a hitch. He would have felt proud if not for the trepidation seizing him; stomach clenched, his fist aching from strain.

“I will give you a command, and you'll obey.”

And how was that any different than any other day? The little shit didn't know how to open his mouth without issuing a command. Taking a sip of wine, he studied her, as if mulling over what to do. Like he didn't already know. Thank the gods they were alone. If Joffrey wanted Sansa beaten, they'd both grown so adept at pretending, that she would suffer minimal amount of pain. That was all he aimed for now.

“Take off your clothes.”

Sansa stiffened. This time it was not an act. His insides froze too, though he could only pray his reaction weren't noticeable. Apart from the damn twitching. Damn it all to the seven hells, he thought Joffrey was past this. He would rape her now. And Sandor would have to watch. 

Stepping further into the room, Sansa began tugging at her laces, slowly shrugging out of her clothes. Joffrey snickered. The things he would do to that little shitstain. One day...

“You too, dog. What are you waiting for. Your King gave you a command.”

This time his reaction could not be hidden. Joffrey's laugher increased.

“Not to worry dog. You'll like what I have in mind.”

It clicked into place then, what Joffrey had planned. It shouldn't really be surprising. Joffrey usually delegated the dirty-work of beating, maiming and killing onto others. Why not rape as well? The thing was, what could he really do? Stepping in place next to Sansa, fist clenched painfully around the hilt of his sword, he attempted to catch her eye. Tried to communicate that she could end it, that it would be over, if only she asked. They would probably die as well, but at this point...

“Go on,” Joffrey prompted again.

Sansa didn't look at him, didn't meet his eyes, never saw the unspoken message in his. So he relented.

They had become good at playing their parts. Too good. When she whimpered as he started to undress, it was for Joffrey. When he let his gaze roam her nearly-naked form, that was for Joffrey too. When she started to shake, when tears slid down her cheeks, when his cock twitched at the sight of her bare skin, it was all for Joffrey. He felt like crying himself. Because of course she would be horrified by the idea of him, naked, thrusting into her. Of course he grew hard at the sight of her naked. He'd wanted to fuck her for longer than he could remember. Now their true relationship and the roles they assumed would be mixed in the most disgusting and twisted way imaginable. He would have to rape her. He would have to rape her, and he knew that as surely as she would cringe and cry and suffer, some small part of him would enjoy it. 

Sandor felt dizzy. Though he continued to look at her, he no longer saw. He registered his hands, unbuckling clasps, removing piece after piece, but he didn't feel them. It was as if they didn't belong to him. A foreigner in his own body. All he could feel was the pounding of his heart, the twitch in his cock. She would never forgive him. Hell, he'd probably never forgive her. Alive or dead, they could have avoided this. If only she'd asked. 

Rage brought him back. Comforting and familiar, it surged through his limbs, brought him back. Anger at her, because while deciding to continue to suffer was ultimately her choice, she chose to make him suffer as well. She knew that by now. She knew his pain and didn't care. At least not enough. 

As she started to unlace her bodice, she lifted her head at last and looked at him. She flinched at what she saw there, but didn't look away. She didn't relent, she didn't ask him to end it, didn't heed his anger. He thought he could almost hate her for it. Because she was making him a rapist now, wasn't she? 

She reached the end of the lacing, pulling the bodice apart, standing there in only her smallclothes. Releasing him from her gaze, her hands went to the last piece of cloth and tugged it off. He followed the movement of the falling piece of silk, before at long last looking.

She was perfect. All creamy skin and rounded teats and soft thighs. He had imagined her, imagined a moment like this, only, it hadn't been on command. She hadn't been crying and cringing, Joffrey hadn't been watching, panting with arousal. The first time, maybe the only time she bared herself to him, and this is what he got. It was ruined now; those thoughts of her, the possibility that maybe, someday... 

He divested himself of the rest of the clothing, hurried and unceremonious. Joffrey mistook it for eagerness. Maybe Sansa did too. Her eyes fixed on the floor, though she didn't appear to actually see anything. Her shoulders were hunched, her body taught and tense. She was humiliated; no small feat after all that she had endured. And though he was far from displeased with his body, he too felt the unmistakable tendrils of shame; being exposed like this, being made powerless. Not just by Joffrey; he could kill the fucker. He could leave. The boy-king didn't hold nearly as much power as he assumed. In some roundabout, twisted way, it was she that held that power over him. 

Joffrey leaned back in the chair, sipping his wine. His feet swung back and forth; a testament to his eagerness, as he eyed Sansa appraisingly. 

“Now, my lady, my dog is going to fuck you, and you're going to like it.”

If she was surprised by this statement, she didn't let it show, but perched herself at the edge of the bed. The King's bed, sumptouos and oversized. Her tiny fingers clutched the silken sheets.

“And how is he going to fuck you like that? Get on the bed, stupid girl,” Joffrey admonished. 

Sansa obeyed, sliding across the bed. Her legs fell open, the dark-red curls of her sex visible to him. He hardened and Joffrey laughed. 

It was odd, this mixture of revulsion and want. It was odd, finally being able to fuck her, and yet not wanting to. It was odd, because if he didn't fuck her he might well loose his head. Fuck or die... Just as inattentiveness was a sure death-sentence on the battlefield, so were his thoughts in this moment. Shame was useless, and so, he cut it loose. It was her choices that had led them here. Now she would taste the consequences. 

She was stunning. Desire for her somehow both marred and heightened her beauty. Her round, pale breast both begging to be fondled and demanding a respectful distance. If he hadn't been commanded, he might never have been able to actually touch her. 

He approached the bed with slow, measured steps. His cock bobbed before him, a movement that surely looked ridiculous. And look she did. Her eyes widened as his member grew. Behind him he heard the telltale sounds of a crossbow being loaded. 

“Get on your back, dog. Sansa, straddle him.”

As he obeyed the King's command, he felt her trembling. It would surely make the bed shake. Joffrey had told her that she would like it, which of course meant that she had to pretend. Accomplished though was, it would seem that this was the one thing she could not do. It may cost her her life. He gave her a hard stare, to which she nodded, though he had no idea what that was supposed to signify.

She did as bid. As he lay supine on the bed, eyes fixed at the canopy, he felt her little hands brace against his chest, soft thighs sliding against his own. She settled lightly over his cock, as if afraid of actual contact. His member fixed that though. It jerked, sliding against her lips, pressing up against her. She gasped, her fingers returning the favor, pressing into his muscles. 

Her teats hovered above him. They were larger than he'd have thought, yet they disappeared completely as his hands closed around them. So soft, so smooth, he let his fingers run over them, thumps brushing her nipples. They hardened into small nubs. He gave them a tentative pinch, to which she gave another small gasp. Had Joffrey ever touched her like this? Had anyone?

Ignoring the King, Sandor let his hands roam where they wanted, sling down her torso, across the flare of her hips, down her thighs. They were dusted with soft hair on the outside, smooth on the inside, though nothing could compare to the softness of her lips. Despite the hair growing there, the texture were softer than kid-skin, smoother than silk. She gasped again.

Gaze drifting to her face, he found her eyes dark and wide, mouth slightly parted. Lifting a hand from his chest, Sansa's dainty fingers enclosed around his cock. He groaned loudly, and she let go. But the shame was gone. As were his pity. They served no purpose. And furthermore, she didn't deserve it. Not from him. He did spit in his hand though, coating his cock in the saliva. Visibly collecting herself, she pushed up on her knees before sliding her slit across his cock in a titillating move. Sandor didn't want to consider where she might have learned that. With one hand on her hip, the other grasping his cock, he prodded against her entrance. It was wet. He didn't want to consider why that was either. Only madness lay that way.

Then, slowly, ever so slowly, she sank down, her cunt absorbing him, gripping and squeezing, until he was all the way in. 

“Does my lady like that?”

Joffrey's voice cut hard and clear through the sound of their ragged breathing.

“Y-yes, Your Grace.”

“You're not really a lady at all, are you? You're a bitch, riding my hound, isn't that so?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Her eyes were closed, screwed shut as she sat there, balancing on his cock. She might not want to look at him, but she was wet and oh so tight. He felt himself grow even harder, wondering how she was able to accommodate all of him. He didn't need her eyes he decided, only her cunt. But as his hands gripped her hips, pulling her up, sliding her cunt against his shaft, her eyes opened. They looked straight into his. 

Her chest was rising and falling rapidly, breathing heavy and labored. She took charge. With hands braced against his chest, fingers tickling the hair there, she rose up and down with slow, deliberate movements. He felt her muscles soften and relax, her cunt relinquishing, as she slid up and down with more ease. 

He dimly registered a sound, some commotion outside in the yard, then Joffrey's voice, cutting through his concentration.

“Keep going, Sansa. And if the Hound tells me you have misbehaved, you know what will happen.”

With that, the King left. He didn't know why. Or why Sansa kept moving, sliding up and down. His mind was foggy, almost as if he were drunk. Then, slowly, it began to sink in. Joffrey had left and Sansa was still fucking him. 

His hands gripped her hips, stilling her movements. 

“What are you doing?”

His voice was embarrassingly strained. Sansa acquiesced and sat still, but didn't get off of him.

“Joffrey said-”

“Fuck Joffrey!”

Finally in control of his voice again, it echoed through the chamber.

“Do you really imagine that I would tell that little shit that you didn't want to fuck me?”

She looked at him with a calmness he hadn't expected. Nudging her hips, hands sliding across his chest, she resumed the fucking. She opened her mouth, her words a whisper.

“But I want to.”

He didn't really understand what she'd said. He didn't have to; his body found the way on it's own. Letting go of her hips, he cupped her breasts, fingers teasing her nipples. She sighed, and he could hear the contentment in it.

“I've wanted to for a long time,” she whispered, hips moving languorous and slow. She let out a broken moan. “Gods, you feel so good.”

Picking up the pace, his ears filled with the moist sounds of her cunt, her breathy, low moans. He groaned, loud and involuntary. That spurred her on.

She was fucking him for true now. It was a good thing he'd decided against thinking, because he'd surely not be able to make sense of this. Yet there she was, riding his cock in earnest, teats bouncing up and down, head thrown back. The very image of a wanton woman, and that woman was his correct and courteous little bird. 

His hips snapped up, colliding with her own. She moaned loudly. 

“Oh gods.”

The words tumbled over her lips, seemingly of their own accord. She was so wet he could feel the moisture slide through his pubic-hair.

“Oh, gods, please, please, I'm...”

Hips moving ever faster, she lowered her face to look at him. Brows furrowed in pleasure, mouth open; she couldn't fake that. Nor the wetness or the shivering, breathy moans spilling out of her beautiful, fuckable mouth. Gods, she was arousing. She was aroused! She was fucking him because she wanted to. None of it made sense. And she kept saying please, begging him for something.

“I'm so close.”

His eyes still fixed on hers, he placed one hand between her legs. Her clit was swollen and so wet be had trouble sliding his fingers across it. Her cries grew, loud and uncontrollable. Who knew the perfect little lady would be loud in bed? He reveled at the thought, his own release looming dangerously close. His balls had already tightened, his cock as swollen as it could possibly become. If not for the strangeness of being fucked by her, by Sansa, he would surely have released long ago.

She kept muttering “please”. Please, please, please, like a prayer in his ear as the muscles of her cunt contracted. She was impossibly tight now. It would be painful, if it wasn't so gods damned good, and yes, he knew that didn't make any sense. But please, gods, just a little more, just let him hold out a little longer.

When her release came it was long and loud and utterly uninhibited. Orgasms tend to do that to people. She moaned and cried, her hips slamming into his with what he suspected was all her force. Her cunt gripped him, squeezing him hard, almost coaxing out his own release. When she stilled, her body was glimmering in sweat.

He flung her down, reversing their positions. Sansa's gaze still met his as he started up the movements. Her arms and legs and breathy moans encircled him as he began the pounding, delicious rhythm once more. Sandor had no more control over his mouth than she, groaning and grunting almost as loudly.

It was unlike anything else. Her cunt so wet, his cock so hard, and it felt... so... good... And oh, gods, just please, a little more, and please, just like that, and...

He took her hard and fast, just like he wanted, just like he needed right now. She coaxed him on with her moans and hands, her thighs gripping his sides, feet digging into his ass, spurring him onwards.

His vision faded as orgasm slammed into him. He would have liked to see her, see her see him as he came inside her. Her beautiful little face was obscured in blackness, and he gave in, pressing his face into her hair, feeling the blood and seed surge through him. 

Slamming into her once, twice, three times more, he finally stilled. 

***

They were both wet. Sweat and seed and her juices covering them both. Her fingers were tracing patterns across his back, her hair enveloping his face. Her breathing had stilled, as had his, yet he still lay on top of her, cock still inside her. She must be crushed, though she didn't complain. Her only sounds were that of a slow, deep breathing.

He found his mind and strength at last, pushing off of her, sliding out.

Tumbling next to her on the bed, he closed his eyes, trying to keep his thoughts at bay. She did that for him, sliding up against him and settled at his side. 

“Thank you.”

Her voice was low, a little hoarse from the previous strain. Placing his arms around her, he tucked her to his side, holding her close. She didn't belong there, but seemed content to stay. As with everything else, he let her decide.


	2. Chapter 2

She did not use to mind the darkness. Like with almost everything else, she felt indifferent. Waking, being, sleeping; all in darkness. It did not matter. She had not been allowed to do anything for ages. They had taken away her needles and thread, her books and paints and brushes and harp. So really, what did it matter whether it was dark or not. It didn't; nothing mattered. And that was fine, because as she'd recently realized, her indifference was the key to her endurance. 

Feelings such as joy and comfort had been stripped away long ago. It was not the work of a moment, but rather a drawn out acclimation. So when the other feelings, the dread, horror and humiliation melted away as well, she was thankful. She did not want to feel when the only thing to feel was pain. Sansa felt the gods had finally answered her prayers in this; she'd asked them to make it better, and they had. Although not in the way she'd imagined. 

Lying on the bed in the dark, there used to be little else to do but sleep and think. Now, she felt as well. The flood-gates had been opened, and along with the joy there was fright and frustration. She had surprised everyone when she threw her plate, food and all, against the wall. No one expected her to resist anymore, least of all herself. But suddenly all those things that had simply been part of life, seemed unendurable. 

It was Sandor’s fault. Sansa knew that was not a reasonable thought. Nevertheless, that was how she felt. It had been fine before, before he touched her, caressed her, made her feel those things. It had been ecstatic, being reminded that some touches felt good. Now, lying on the bed for hours on end, feeling the phantom-sensations of pleasure, the anticipation of experiencing it again, the pain and boredom smarted all the more because of it. 

He hadn't visited. Not once. It was probably unreasonable to resent him for that too. If he stayed away, he had his reasons. But it was not like it was beyond his power to do so. He had visited on occasion in the past. Tending her wounds after a particularly vicious beating, or just to talk when she'd been isolated for weeks. He was far from a great conversationalist and his touch was hesitant. She appreciated it all the same. So when days passed without a single visit, it surprised her. And yes, it hurt too. All because of him. 

It all felt a bit too familiar. Like she was turning back into that silly, stupid girl she'd once been. Worrying about a man. Really, it was ridiculous! And imprudent. She couldn't afford to feel that way. She couldn't afford to feel anything, not if she wanted to survive. What she had to survive for, was a question she preferred not to dwell on. Her parents were dead. As were her brothers. Jon was at the Wall, Arya nowhere to be found. But she ate her meals, she did as they bid, she followed their rules. It was as automatic as it was joyless, but it was her only choice. She did not think of it in terms of hope or fight. She did what she had to do. 

The only real choice she'd been presented with, was given to her by Sandor. He came to her room after that fist time Joffrey had... He'd grabbed her shoulders, forcing her to meet his gaze, begging her to let him take her away. He'd been desperate, a wild look on his face. When she declined, he looked near crying. He relented in the end though, respecting her decision. What he didn't know, was that it was no real choice at all.

Joffrey had spoken to her after he'd... He had told her of the spies that lurked at the docks and throughout the city. Proving himself smarter than anybody suspected, he'd informed her that he knew of the Hound's attraction to her. Then he'd told her, with a softness in his voice that chilled her to her very bones, that if his dog should ever attempt to take her away, he'd be unsuccessful. That when they were caught, and they would be, he wouldn't harm her. Not at first. But he would let her watch as he tortured the Hound, before finally killing him. With fire. 

Sansa had never doubted a word he said. Joffrey was reliable that way. He would find them. He would kill Sandor. For all the lives on her conscience, this could not be one of them. He was not what she had imagined in a knight, but he was all she had. At some point, that thought had taken root and grown into so much more. They would never have each other. They would never be happy. But she found she was willing to suffer for him, and that was a nice thought. It made her feel stronger, better, almost pious. 

When the knock came, it startled her. No one ever knocked anymore. That in itself gave away the visitor. Her hands shook, her palms clammy. Sansa could not recall the last time she felt nervous, and yet there the emotion was, as unwelcome as it was impractical. Feeling her cheeks heat with a blush, mind scrambling for something to say, she felt as if transported back years and years, to before everything that had happened. Sandor did that to her. She was not grateful. 

***

As it turned out, there was no need for her to speak. After a curt greeting, Sandor informed her that the small-council had allowed her a trip to the godswood. Taking a moment for her eyes to adjust to the light, he escorted her down the hallway without another word. 

He didn't say anything, didn't address their last encounter, or his absence. He did however, take her hand, placing it in the crook of his elbow. His skin was warm, his body solid. It elicited all sorts of feelings. She had spent many an hour since the King had commanded them to... well... think about the act, about what they'd done. They had not kissed. They had barley touched. It had been enough at the time, but she'd spent the days since lamenting all that they hadn't done while given the chance. She should have kissed him. She ought to have touched, caressed, felt. It was doubtful she'd ever get the chance again.

As he guided her across the court-yard, she took note of his clothing. 

“You're tunic needs mending.”

Sandor halted for a moment, looking down at her with an expression akin to shock. 

“W-what?” she stammered, feeling her cheeks heat up again. Those thrice damned emotions!

His face morphed into a softer one, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his good lip.

“I didn't realize you much cared about clothing anymore.” He resumed walking. “But once a lady, always a lady, I suppose.”

He grinned shamelessly at his own comment. It was annoying her to no end. 

“I don't. I was simply pointing out that it needs mending.” 

“Aye. But you noticed, and I suppose that's something.”

The godswood was quiet and mercifully cool. It smelled of dirt and grass and that indefinable forest-smell. Her arm still on his, he guided her in amongst the trees. Her palm had grown clammy where it rested against his arm.

“I cannot remember the last time I was here.”

“It's some months ago. Two, perhaps.”

“It is an odd thing for the small-council to discuss. My going to the godswood, I mean.”

Sandor hummed his agreement, but did not comment further. He chose the path, steering them onto a small trail. It was almost obscured by grass. It was darker here where the trees grew thick. She could see better when the light did not sting so much.

Sansa felt annoyed again, though she did not know why. That in itself was annoying. She dropped her arm from his and stopped. 

“Why did you not visit me before?”

Her tone was accusatory, the question silly. She even knew the answer before he spoke it.

“Busy,” was his monotonic reply. It was more than that though. He could not, or it might draw notice, especially considering that they had... He knew that. What's more, he knew that she knew that. Nevertheless, his shortness only fueled her temper.

“Busy? You mean to say that you have been on consecutive duty for what? A week?”

Sandor snorted his usual, unflattering snort.

“Of course not.”

“Then why?”

“You know why?”

“If I did, I wouldn't ask.”

She stated the lie with conviction, and no small amount of anger. That seemed to elicit a reaction. Sandor's eyes widened ever so slightly, his palms held up in a placating gesture.

“I might not be a prisoner of the crown, but I'm not free to go where ever I choose either. Especially not visiting captives without cause. You know that.”

He sighed, raking his hand through his hair. His muscles bunched visibly through his tunic as he did so. Sansa blushed. Again. Damn her treacherous body.

“Why are you so upset?”

She laughed, high-pitched and false.

“You ask me why I'm upset? Honestly?”

Sandor's face fell and settled into a grim mask. His reaction surprised her. Stepping away from her, he perched himself on a rock. He was still taller than her, she noted. She was as clueless about his reaction as he no doubt was about her anger. That did not stop her from raging on. In truth, she doubted anything could. Even if Ser Meryn or Joffrey himself should step through the trees, it would not have been enough to halt her momentum. Her feelings were back and would not be stopped by anything, least of all reason. 

“You make love to me. You hold me and caress me. You didn't have to make it good, and yet you did. And then... then you left me.”

She was speaking too loudly, feeling too keenly. She knew it, but could not bring herself to care. Looking at him where he sat perched on the rock, she saw his own emotion turn from... whatever it was, into anger. That was a face she was familiar with. It was almost comforting.

“You can't be serious?”

Springing from his seat, he reached her in two long strides. His muscles were tense, his face drawn. For the first time she noticed the dark circles underneath his eyes. 

“I have offered to take you away. Time and time again. You are the one who chooses to remain here. You are the one at fault for our situation. And now you're angry with me for... for what? Not getting arrested? Not getting you beaten?”

His eyes were as intense as ever. He looked at her with something akin to hatred. It was a look she had not seen in quite some time. Sansa started to cry. 

Turning away from him, she buried her face in her palms. Being quiet suddenly seemed important again. She could hear his heavy breathing behind her. He did not approach.

“I'd thought you'd outgrown those... fantasies. I thought at the very least you understood the situation. Or was Joffrey's little game too subtle for you? What if it was Meryn? Huh?”

He hit a sore spot, and Sansa found her voice again, though she was unable to quell the tears. Stepping forward, she closed the distance between them and poked him in the chest. Hard.

“I did!” she nearly screamed. “I did outgrow it. Fantasies, romance, all of it. I was doing fine, and then you... you undid it all.”

Sandors expression became impassive as he towered over her. 

“I had learned not to hope for anything. But then you...”

The words caught in her throat. It was too embarrassing. Crying in front of him. Screaming. She was that child again, that person he used to despise.

“Then I what?” he prompted.

Sansa swallowed. It was difficult, her throat tight. She felt unable to speak, so she shook her head. Sandor gave a low growl, no doubt as frustrated with her as she was with him. He had little patience with crying, she remembered.

Gripping her shoulders, he shook her. It was not ungentle, but still startling. It was the first time he touched her properly since...

“When you... touched me. Like you did. When we... made love. It brought it all back.”

She could not bear to look at him. Her face was probably the same colour as her hair by now. It was too embarrassing. She wanted to be rid of him, to run and hide. She wanted him to hold her and never let go. She wanted to scream at him, kiss him, touch him. She wanted to turn back the clock to a time where she didn't want anything at all. 

He was quiet, though he remained close. Finally plucking up the courage, she looked at him. He seemed... confused. Then, slowly, his expression changed to one of understanding. He shook his head, eyes closed. When he opened them, the anger had returned. 

“Is that it?” His voice was laced with disbelief and no small among of disgust. “Is that why you're angry with me? Because I didn't make it horrible for you? Because I didn't rape you?”

It was the truth, and seeing as she knew how unreasonable she was acting, she was unable to find a retort. Her silence seemed to fuel his bottomless rage.

“You might not have realized,” he spat, true venom in his voice, “that that would make me a rapist.”

It was true. She had not. There was certainly a small, unreasonable part of her that whished he might not have made it feel quite so good. That he hadn't awoken her feelings again. But she had never, during all those hours laying on the bed, thinking, contemplated what that would mean for him. He cared for her, that much she knew. And to expect him to... when he had no notion of how it would make her feel, that it would make her feel. 

“Besides,” he continued, “you were the one who fucked me. You were the one to continue after Joffrey left us. Hells, you are the one who insist we remain here. So whatever blame it is that you are attempting to dole out, don't. This is on you. All of it.”

His chest were rising and falling rapidly, brushing her with every labored breath. Sansa thought she had never seen him more angry. She knew for a fact that he had never had a better reason to. Not with her, at least. He leant ever so slightly forward, his eyes boring into hers. She felt his breath across her face, warm and moist. His lids grew heavy, though his gaze was no less intense. It seemed almost as if he might kiss her. But no, that would be absurd. Then he seemed to freeze, and, shaking his head, he took a step back. 

It did seem a bit unfair; now that she felt again, that the bliss had been so short, while the embarrassment, and now, mortification and shame seemed to be in such great supply. She started to cry again. Sandor turned away from her.

“Come,” he said, voice as cold as the north. “I need to take you back.”

***

Tucked into her bed and the darkness, Sansa replayed their conversation again and again in her mind. At the very least, it gave her something to do. She could not recall every word, but she remembered enough. It seemed he blamed her, not only for her own situation, but his as well. That too, was something she had not considered.

When he had offered to take her away, she thought it was only for her. She had never contemplated his reasons for doing so. After all, wasn't rescuing her reason enough? It should be, for any decent human being. She had thought it tragically ironic; he wanting to protect her by taking her away, and she refusing in order to protect him. It was almost like a song. But, perhaps there was more. That it was not only her condition he sought to change, but his own as well. 

He was a good man, in his own way. And yet the things he was forced to do... He would have deserted a long time ago, during the night of the siege, if not for her. He did not only offer to take her away for her protection. That was his reason for staying as well. At some point she would have thought that terribly romantic. Maybe it was. But it was also horrible and messy, as with most things where emotion are concerned.


	3. Chapter 3

Joffrey was bored. Again. The lot of those who've got the world at their fingertips. No request too grand or wish too unreasonable. 

Upon seeing the state of the Kings chambers, floor littered with half-dead whores and crossbow-bolts, Sandor knew what was coming. Joffrey was laying sprawled back on the bed, palming himself through his breeches with one hand, the other toying with a blood-stained dagger. Shame was apparently an unfamiliar concept. Once he saw him, the King's eyes lit up with a rare and ill-boding enthusiasm. 

«You're here. Good. I thought it time we played again.»

Sandor knew now what he hadn't realized the last time. Sansa was not the only one getting punished. Of course, being used as means of punishing another, especially her, was it's own form of cruelty. But through Joffrey's not-so-subtle comments after the last 'game', Sandor realized that the King knew more than he'd ever let on; Sandor wasn't simply a convenient tool used to terrorize the Kings prisoner. He was also the victim.

His time as kingsguard had been like a study in cruelty, watching as the King graduated to ever more grand and insidious methods. Sandor had always thought that while Joffrey's penchant for bodily harm was creative as well as boundless, he was fundamentally lacking in any insight into people, and therefore could not break a person with any true accuracy. Sandor readily admitted to being astounded when he realized that the King might have learned his final lesson were viciousness was concerned; to not only tear apart someone’s body, but their spirit as well. In other words; the King knew of the bond between himself and Sansa. And he knew how to use it. 

Sandor nodded, the silent consent same as ever. At least that's what the King would believe. 

***

It was a terribly bad plan. Sandor didn't allow himself to dwell on that. No point anyway, given that this was their only option. If he'd had time to prepare properly, he would have chartered a ship. He would have bolted in the night, a head-start of several hours. Maybe he could even have arranged some sort of diversion. He would also rather have had her consent and cooperation as they fled. 

Sandor would have to do without all that. In some ways it calmed him to know despite the calamitous circumstances, there was only one thing to do. And there were hardly anyone more suited than him to do it. Alright, so he wasn't exactly inconspicuous. But he was strong, relatively quick-witted, and also the only man to step up. So there. 

Sansa opened the door almost immediately. She attempted to step towards him, but got caught up in her skirts and lack of eyesight. 

“The King?” she asked, arms flailing about. They settled once they found his chest. 

“No.”

She looked visibly relieved, before he spoke again.

“I'm taking you away.”

Her shoulders tensed up, arms dropping away from his chest, back to her sides.

“No,” she whispered, taking a step back. “You can't.”

“Oh yes, I can.”

His voice was a growl, threatening as anything. He would have been a fool to truly believe he could scare her into acquiescing. But it was worth the attempt. 

“I don't want to go.”

“Well, I do.”

He reached her in one quick stride. She must have truly trusted him because as his hand closed around hers, she looked honestly shocked. Grabbing his dagger, he twirled it around in his hand, and brought the hilt down at the back of her head in one swift movement. Thank the gods she couldn't see. She passed out at once. 

It wasn't the escape from the castle that had concerned Sandor the most when plotting their escape. But he'd always thought that it would be nighttime, with no servants or guests to run into. The guards didn't really pose a problem. 

But with Sansa laying limp across his shoulder, the entire castle awake, he wasn't particularly spoiling for a fight. He had to stop at almost every floor, waiting until it was clear. By the time he reached the basement-corridors, he'd only knocked out one guard. It had also taken much more time than they had. Most likely. 

Still, he felt a bit calmer as he strode down the more-or-less secret passage from Maegors towards the dungeons. Few knew about these tunnels. Even when the alarm was sounded, as surely it would be any moment, they would assume he would head towards the docks. Any sane man would. Or else they would think he attempted to reach the city-gates. Sandor did not plan on doing either. 

He didn't need a torch, having walked these corridors in the dark many a time. Usually while drunk, though not always. He counted his strides – forty, forty-one, forty-two. He'd reached sixty-seven when Sansa finally began to stir. Thank the gods, it wouldn't do if he'd concussed her. Sansa's breathing went from calm and even to completely erratic as she slowly regained consciousness.

“Put me down,” was her sudden hiss. It sounded too loud, echoing through the corridor. 

“Be quiet!”

If only she would do as bid. He didn't want to make more sound than necessary, nor did he want to lose count of his steps and have to light a torch. But Sansa, who'd been nothing but pliant for the past couple of years, had suddenly started to fight back. First throwing her plate against the wall, refusing to eat. Then instigating that absurd argument in the godswood. Now this. He wouldn't have minded if only it didn't come at such a damn inopportune time. She trashed about more violently than ever.

“I'm serious woman. Be still! Or do you want us to get caught.”

“I want you to bring be back before we get caught.”

Her voice was lower this time, though her attempts to get down no less eager.

“Well, it's too late for that.”

That did the trick, apparently. Her body stilled, though he could feel the rise and fall of her chest, more rapid than ever.

“What did you do?” she whispered, her voice small and desperate.

“Saved your life.”

She didn't say anything more after that. He imagined she must have a difficult time finding a retort anyway. He walked on, still carrying her though there was no real need of that now. She just hung there, limp as a ragdoll. When finally reaching stride number hundred-and-twenty-one, he stopped. 

“I'm putting you down now. Try and run and I'll knock you out again.”

He didn't wait for her to answer. She probably wouldn't anyway. He imagined he could feel her reproach emanating from her as she regained her footing. Fumbling against to wall for a moment, he found the flint and torch he'd hidden away ages ago. Thankfully, they were both still dry and lit up at once.

The light wasn't particularly bright. They could only spy a little down the corridor on each side. Nevertheless, should someone think to look for them here, they would be visible a long way off. They were somewhere below the dungeons, he knew. And there, right next to where he'd placed the flint, was a small chest. Still here then, thank fuck. 

He crouched down and threw the lid up. Sansa seemed to be more curious than mad, at least for the moment, because he could feel her hovering behind him. 

“What's that?”

“I made some preparations. Long time ago.”

“Preparations? Preparations for what?”

“The fuck you think? In case we needed to escape.”

“But I told you I did not want to leave.”

She shuffled behind him, clearly riled again.

“And I listened, far longer than I should have.”

The chest did not contain much. It would appear too suspicious, should anyone find it. There were only a tattered gown he'd stolen from a washer-woman, a shawl for her hair, and a cloak for each of them. He grabbed the gown and shoved it into her hand.

“Put this on.”

She opened her mouth as if to argue. But perhaps reason finally caught up with her, or maybe it was his expression, because she closed it again just as sudden and did as he bid. 

He might have expected her to show a bit more modesty, but she simply said “help me,” and began tugging at the laces of her bodice. Thankfully, none of her dresses were to elaborate now a days. They had her stripped down to her shift in moments. It certainly spoke to the direness of the situation that he did not take a moment to look at her, but turned around to tend to his own clothes instead. 

While their current escape was half-arsed, Sandor had known for some time it might be a possibility. The initial plan, the one predicated on her actually wanting to leave, was rather more well-constructed. But it didn't mean he hadn't made contingency-plans. He had also given it a lot of thought, and therefore had long since decided against changing out of his armor. He would, later. For now it was enough to change out of his white cloak and into something a bit less conspicuous. Something with a large hood. 

Ripping his cloak off, he let it fall to the ground, pulling on the new one with great haste. It was black and maybe not as anonymous as he'd imagined, given that that had somehow become his signature colour. Him and the Nights Watch. He helped Sansa on with her own cloak, as well as she shawl, making certain that nothing of that tell-tale hair was visible. After stuffing their discarded clothes back in the chest, he drew the palm of his hand across the floor. It was not as dirty as he would have liked, but it would have to do. Hand now covered in dust, he pulled Sansa towards him and, without warning, wiped it across her face. He might have been a bit more considerate towards her, and her look told him he would pay dearly. He also knew that this was a life and death-situation, as surely as any battle, and therefore not the place to exact his petty vengeance for the way she'd treated him. Yet there he was, acting like a little boy and not her supposed protector. Ah, well, he'd never claimed to be honorable. Wouldn't do to get her hopes up. 

Letting his hand drop, he took a moment to evaluate her appearance. She was a far cry from the servant she was supposed to imitate, but it would do the job, he was fairly certain of that. In fact, if he let her go on her own, he was reasonably sure that the City Watch would not recognize her. But then there would still be sell-swords and pickpockets and good, old-fashioned rapists to look out for. She would never make it in the city alone. 

Pulling up her hood, then his own, he extinguished the torch before fumbling in the dark for her hand. 

“Now, either you come with me willingly or unwillingly. The choice is yours, though you're coming with me either way. What will it be, girl?”

Feeling her small hand slip into his own, he closed his fingers around it and tugged her along. It was slightly cold, colder than his own, but she gripped his hand with determination.

“Where are we going?” she whispered.

“Hush! I'll explain later.”

She seemed to understand; there were ears everywhere, she knew that as well as any long-time resident of the Red Keep. They walked along in silence for several long minutes before finally bumping into the wooden surface Sandor knew to be the door that led out to flea-bottom. There where many such passages under the keep. They weren't known to a lot of people, though Sandor was sure that a number of them were being searched right this moment. Like the one to the docks, or the one that came out right by the mud-gate. Pushing the door open before peeking into the too-bright street, he once again congratulated himself on the choice; no guards. 

It didn't take long before the little bird started to chirp, asking question after question. He ignored her, and she soon lapsed into silence. But once they had slipped through alley after alley in the seediest part of town, she suddenly came to an abrupt halt. Pulling her hand from his at last, she crossed her arms and gave him a look of such affront he would have applauded her if the circumstances allowed. It had been a long time since she'd seemed capable of being affronted at all. The little bird were regaining her claws. Good.

“Where are you taking me?” she hissed.

“I'll tell you once we're there. This isn't the place to talk.”

Sandor made to grab her hand once more, but she would not relent.

“This is flea-bottom. The docks are in the opposite direction. There are no city-gates in flea-bottom.”

“Aye, you're right about that,” he conceded. “We're not leaving the city. Not at once. Now, unless you don't wish to leave, ever, let's go.”

She seemed somewhat mollified, and slipped her hand back into his. 

Sandor wasn't certain whether the vast crowds were a good or a bad thing. Easier to slip away, and yet more eyes to spot them. Though the residents of flea-bottom carried no great love for their King, nor the City Watch. If someone should be inclined to hide a prisoner of the crown, it were these people. He had been happy with this plan, given the short amount of time he'd had in constructing it. It could not have been more than an hour since Joffrey sent him on his way. Still, as he looked out across the square, gold-cloaks milling about with the common-folk, he began to feel the first tendrils of panic. 

Turning to the little bird, he ducked his head and whispered: “I'm afraid we have to break up.”

She pulled her head back, looking horrified.

“What?”

“They're looking for the two of us, not a girl on her own. And I'm far more noticeable than you.”

“But... I don't know where we're going. I've hardly ever set foot outside the keep.”

He would have been annoyed by her uselessness. But of course, it was not her fault. 

“That's fine. It's only for a little while. You see the small alley there? Across the square?”

She followed the line of his finger and nodded.

“I'll meet you there. You just have to make it across the square on your own.”

She gave him a wide-eyed stare, and he could not help but contemplate how utterly helpless she was but for him. That was the way some women helped themselves, he supposed, by ensuring endless loyalty from more capable people. Even if it wasn't by design. She did find some of that inner strength she must have such great quantities of though, because she nodded, a determined look on her face. 

“If I don't turn up, then make your way to Birch-street. To the house with the green front door. There's an open window at the back. The place is mine.”

Another nod, though a little more hesitant this time. 

“There's coin and clothing there. Though make sure that no one sees you.”

She didn't say anything, just gave one final, weak nod. 

“Alright then, girl. See you in a bit.”

With that he gave her a push and she stumbled into the square. At least she had the sense not to look behind her as she disappeared into the crowd.

 

***

Sandor praised his own presence of mind as he wound his way through the crowds. If they should discover her, he might be able to create a diversion. Though there would be little point; he very much doubted she would make it on her own. Still, she'd proved stronger than he'd ever suspected. At least he owed her the chance. Well, as a matter of fact, he didn't really owe her anything. But he would give it to her anyway. 

There were gold-cloaks everywhere. They didn't make their activities much of a secret either, approaching any red-headed person in the crowd. It seemed it didn't occur to them that looking for him would make their search easier. Then again, the City Watch had never recruited on the basis of intelligence. 

He made it across in a matter of minutes, keeping his instinct to run in check. Sansa had not been able to do the same; she was already waiting for him, breathing heavily. She slipped her hand into his without comment, though relief was plain on her face. Her expression made him feel all sorts of silly things, but there were no time to dwell on those now. 

The house was one he'd bought years ago, after winning the tourney of the hand. He'd never told anyone about it, and was certain no one knew. He'd only been there a handful of times, when life at court proved too oppressive. Usually when Gregor visited. It was a shit-hole in truth; small, damp and with a terrible smell. But as he opened the backdoor and followed Sansa inside, he wondered if any place had looked quite so welcome to her. It certainly didn't look it. Her eyes were wide with wonder as she took in everything from the leaking chimney to the dust-covered floor. When they landed on him, wonder and relief was replaced by something else. 

She made her way to him, hands braced against his chest. It took a moment for him to realize she was attempting to push him. Whether due to her weakness or his strength, it seemed more like a caress. He had to admit, it was odd, this transformation of hers. Too long he'd been used to the meek version of her, he'd forgotten that beneath it all, she was a wolf. Sandor caught her hands in his, though he tried to be gentle. His voice, however, was anything but.

“What? Hitting your rescuer? Not very lady-like, is it now?”

“Shut up,” she hissed. “How could you do that?” 

She was shouting, entirely too loudly. 

“I told you, time and again, that I didn't need rescuing. I didn't want to go.”

She was an odd creature. Try as he might – and he had certainly tried – he could not figure her out. 

“By all means, kill yourself if you must. I'm quite sure that that was what Joffrey had planned today. Or if not today, than soon. At least now you have a choice.”

He was quite satisfied with his words, and had honestly expected her to deflate at once. That was not what happened. Instead she seemed to grow more angry.

“You should have asked me. You should have listened,” she ranted, sounding torn between crying or maybe outright killing him. “He will find us now. He will find us anywhere. He will kill us. He will kill us both.”

“He would have done so either way.”

“Not you,” she screamed, her voice more high-pitched then ever. Deciding that enough was enough, he stepped forward, clamping a hand over her mouth. Her face was wet, her body trembling ever so slightly. The anger seemed to have left her now. Without it, she looked defeated. 

Closing her eyes, she leant into him. She didn't seem like she was in the mood to scream, so, removing his hand, he wrapped it around her instead. It was tentative and a little awkward. He wasn't used to holding her like this, much less to the idea that she might actually want him to. She did seem to want it though, and burrowed her face into his mailed chest. 

“I'm not so easy to kill,” he muttered, placing a hand on her head, still covered by that ugly shawl. “Besides, I don't think I was long for in that keep. Joffrey seems to have tired of me at last.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, voice muffled against his chest.

He shrugged. 

“He seemed to have it in for me of late. What with that whole... game.”

With that, she pushed away from his chest, looking at him with wide, horrified eyes. Gods, but they where blue! 

“But...” she stammered. “I thought that was some sort of reward for you. That's... what he said.”

“Aye, that's what I thought as well. At first.”

She looked at him intensely, urging him on. He sighed and acquiesced.

“But some of the things he said... It occurred to me that he knew, the best way to hurt me would be through you.”

“So,” she urged on, “you think that he knows that you... that you care for me. And that's why he chose you for his game, because he knew that hurting me would hurt you?”

He nodded, silent.

“That's terrible,” she whispered, sounding genuinely shocked.

“That's Joffrey.”

“But... I thought he at least liked you. That he would not hurt you without cause.”

He sighed, running a hand though his sweat-damp hair. 

“Aye, so did I. I think he did, for a time. Maybe he was just bored.”

Sansa looked away, thoughtful. It occurred to him that whatever reason she had for staying, she had yet to divulge it. Not that it really mattered to him; it's not as if he could be expected to put anything above either of their lives. And if that made her angry with him, well, that was just fine. There was a part of him that was still angry with her as well. 

“I'm tired,” she muttered, not looking at him.

“There's a bed. Upstairs. You take it.”

Lifting that thoughtful gaze to him, she reached forward and took his hand. As she led the way up the stairs, it occurred to him that maybe she wasn't all that angry after all.


	4. Chapter 4

It was late evening when she woke. The room was blissfully dark, and she felt unable to sleep anymore. Alt last. Sandor had explained to her that she was concussed, and couldn't sleep for too long at a time. He had woken her at regular intervals, and the afternoon passed by in flashes. Sometimes he lay next to her, though as evening neared he had left, only coming back to wake her. He had seemed calm, almost bored, so she supposed there were still no immediate danger. 

Sitting up in bed, she was momentarily surprised by the rough-spun dress that she wore. No wonder, it was all rather a lot to take in. The last unknown period of her life she had done literally nothing, unless one counted thinking. But even before that her days were usually far from eventful. And now, with an impromptu escape, a chase through the streets of Kings Landing, the discovery that Sandor owned a house; no wonder she forgot the dress. Sansa was painfully aware that there was a time in which that would have been at the forefront of her mind. She was ashamed to remember, more so because Sandor had known her back then. He remembered too, she knew. 

Noises from downstairs alerted her to his whereabouts. At least he was still in the house. The staircase was narrow and rickety, creaking with every step. Sandor turned from where he'd been hunched in front of the fireplace, feeding the flames with kindling. He didn't say anything, merely gave her a curt nod before resuming his task.

The room looked cozy in a spartan sort of way. There were no decorations, no hangings, almost no furniture. The piece of cloth covering the windows were not curtains, as she'd first thought, but rather their cloaks. To keep prying eyes away, she surmised. But the candles and the fire gave the room a warm glow, so much softer than sunlight. 

She took a seat by the fire on one of the room's two chairs. Sandor's back was still turned. It rippled in subtle movements as he worked. He seemed content to maintain silent, and though she would love nothing more than to talk, to have an actual conversation after such a long time in silence, she realized that she did not know what to say. 

She should thank him. But then, he had taken her without leave, against her express wishes, and she didn't want to let go of that anger just yet. She should also apologize for making him stay. The emotion most predominant since their fight in the godswood had been guilt. But then again, she had never asked him to. Not since that night of the Blackwater battle. It was unfair of him to put that on her. All of these emotions, at odds with each other, and she had no idea how to handle them. It was too much, too confusing, so she too remained silent. At least about that. There were still more pressing concerns, things they ought to talk about, even if he was not in the mood. 

“What are we going to do?”

Sandor stiffened slightly, the movements in his back stilling. He appeared to be done with the fire though, because he stood up, slowly, and looked at her. 

“About what?”

Gods, but he could be difficult.

“About everything,” she responded, exasperated.

“You mean, how are we going to get out of Kings Landing?”

She nodded. Sandor sighted and perched himself on the other chair. He looked just as bored as ever, and something about his lack of emotion annoyed her. He looked at her for quite a while before sighing.

“By boat or on horseback. I'm not rightly sure. Though I think boat will be easier in the long run...”

His voice trailed off, his gaze shifting from her to the fire. His expression was still unreadable. It gave her another twinge of annoyance that he who had used to brim over with anger now appeared to have every emotion in check. It felt... lonely. She knew Sandor felt, and that he felt keenly. She had been confronted by his emotions, swinging from anger to mirth and back again with bewildering speed. It had used to scare her. Now his apparent self-control frustrated her. She would have liked nothing more for him to join her in temperamental chaos.

“What do you mean?”

He sighed again with apparent exasperation; the first flicker of emotion that he displayed. 

“It will be easier for them to keep the docks under surveillance. Bribe the captains, keep eyes on the docks. Much more so than the gates. On the other hand, once we're on a ship, there's precious little they can do about it. Unless they know where we're headed. If we left on horseback we would have to travel for weeks, maybe month through unfriendly territory.”

It all seemed rather obvious now that he pointed it out. It was also disheartening. She knew Joffrey had been right, she just knew it. He was just too smart, his resources too plentiful. A deserting non-knight and a high-born woman against a king. There was no hope. And when they were caught, she knew all too well how it would end. He should not have taken her, he ought to have left alone. That way he might not... Her eyes grew moist at the thought. Sansa cursed herself for her own weakness, and looked away so that he might not see. He did not like it when she cried. 

“But,” Sandor continued, “if we hold out here for a while, it will be a different matter.”

“How so?”

Her head whipped around, tears forgotten. Could he possibly have a plan? Maybe she had done him a disservice by underestimating him? 

“They will expect us to get out of Kings Landing right away. The last thing they'll be counting on is for us to remain here. Besides... I believe Joffrey is overestimating people's devotion to him. Anyway, if we manage to hold out here for a while, we can charter a ship in a few days.”

She drew a sharp breath, mind reeling. It was true! The wouldn't expect them to remain. There might yet be a way out of this; this city and this situation. 

“So if we simply wait here for a while, they will stop looking for us. But this is good news, Sandor!”

He grimaced, seemingly uncomfortable with her enthusiasm. Sandor ran a hand across his face. 

“There's still a chance that we might get recognized. Either as we board a ship, or while we wait. In case you hadn't noticed, we're not exactly inconspiucous.”

Still, it gave her more hope than she had experienced in a long while. She only wondered at his lack of faith. It had been his fool-hardy notion to escape. She decided to ask.

“Surely you must have thought of this? You were always aware of the dangers. Why do they seem so insurmountable now?”

In one abrupt movement, Sandor shot to his feet. Then he was pacing from one end of the room to the other. His entire body was tense, muscles stretched taut. He was angry, she could tell. Maybe that was better than feigned boredom. His self-control had begun to slip. 

“Aye, I did think of it,” he spat. “I thought and planned. I had decided on chartering a ship in advance. To leave during the night. We would have stood a chance then.”

Sansa was confused. He had taken her without permission. Surely he could have followed his initial plan.

“Then why didn't you?”

Predictably, her question made him angrier. His emotions didn't scare her anymore. In some ways she even relished pulling him down with her. It felt good to not have to be reasonable anymore.

“Why do you think?” he asked, throwing his arms in the air, before resuming his pacing. “You said no. Again and again. When I finally took you, it was because there was no other choice. Things had gone too far.”

Something must have happened, she gathered. It was not Sandor being his usual, volatile self, but rather a choice born out of desperation. It did not feel right, both that he should decide on her behalf, but also that he should have had to. 

Getting to her feet, she crossed the floor to him. Placing a hand tentatively on his forearm, she looked up at him. He seemed to have calmed, though his eyes were stormy. 

“There is no use thinking about that now,” she whispered. “We are both here, and we are both safe. For the moment. And maybe we will escape, maybe we'll get caught. All we can do is try.”

He nodded, face softer but still determined. Her hand tightened around his arm. It felt good, to be able to touch him, to reaffirm that he was actually there. There was such an assault of feelings then. But she knew that the emotions, the anger and worry, as well as the the relief, the hope and the gratitude, were all equally welcome. Because, due to him, she could feel again. And no one would punish her for it here, so long as they managed to elude Joffrey's grasp. 

“But promise me, Sandor, that if we do get caught... promise me that you will kill us. Both of us. Do not let us get pulled back in. There are worse things than dying, I know that now.”

Sandor nodded. He appeared thoughtful as he lifted his own hand, placing it on top of hers. 

“As you say.”

***

It was not until later, while lying in bed waiting for sleep, that Sansa realized how little she actually knew Sandor. It was not something she had ever really considered; he was her only friend. He liked her and she trusted him. That carried with it some implication of acquaintance with each other's lives. But while Sandor knew almost all there was to know about her, in addition to having an unnerving sort of insight into her feelings, she not only knew very few facts about him, but his character was a constant source of surprise as well. 

After their conversation by the fire-place, Sandor went on the hunt for food. They had not brought any with them in their haste, and he had been reluctant to leave her while she slept. Neither wished to traverse the streets; not enough time had passed. Thankfully, it turned out the house boasted a small back-yard. Therein grew an apple-tree and a small, dilapidated kitchen-garden with potatoes, cabbage and even beets. It wasn't much to people used to castle-food. The garden was also full of weeds and looked as if it had not been tended for years. Still, she was immensely grateful. 

“Do I look like a fucking farmer,” was Sandor's response when she asked him about it. 

“Surely you could have hired someone?” she pointed out. Sandor snorted in derision and went back to picking apples, while she scrambled in the dirt.

“That would have defied the point. I got this place to be alone.”

It was hardly a satisfactory answer, and her mind reeled with possibilities, though she suspected that it was no more than a means for him to escape court-life once in a while. She understood that well enough. 

It did, however, imply things about him that had not occurred to her before. Like how much money he had. As it turned out, he had quite a stash of gold tucked away under a loose floor-board. He had not been born rich, she knew, so how did he come across it?

The back-yard also boasted a well. Sandor instructed her to fetch water while he got more wood for the stove. Pressing a bucket into her hands, she stood in perplexed bemusement for a while, before finding out what she was supposed to do. Her muscles had taken their toll during her years of captivity. Now they had wasted away to barely nothing. It was a struggle to haul a bucket full of water from the well. Even more difficult was the short journey from the back-yard to the kitchen. By the time she reached the stove, she was drenched, a trail of water marking her every step.

Sandor had laughed. It was as unexpected as it was annoying. Throwing his head back, he let out a loud yelp that trailed into smaller chuckles. Sansa did not like being laughed at. But that was momentarily pushed aside by the realization that Sandor could laugh. She knew he had a sense of humor. She had even witnessed it, crude as it was. But that had been such a long time ago. She realized that Sandor had suffered and changed over the past years as well. That he too had repressed parts of himself. Parts that he was now allowed to let free. And free them he did, laughing without restraint. It did not die down until she took it upon her to smack him. On the chest. Hard. 

“Stop it,” she reprimanded. 

“You look a right fool. What did you do? Jump in the well?”

She crossed her arms and tried to look formidable. It did not work. Sandor did not even appear to notice. He did eye her wet dress for a while, seemingly mulling something over in his mind. 

“I don't have a second dress for you,” he mumbled at last. “Take that off and hang it in front of the fire. In the meanwhile, I'll see what I can make of these vegetables.”

“Should I help”?

Sandor cocked an eyebrow.

“Do you know how to cook?”

She shuffled her feet, looking down. The question made her uncomfortable. She did not know how to cook. In fact, the only things she did know, would be perfectly useless in their current situation. She was helpless, utterly dependent on him. And Sandor knew it. 

Sansa shook her head.

“Well, then...” 

He shrugged, and that appeared to be the end of the matter. It occurred to her that this implied that Sandor could cook. However had he learnt that? Shrugging out of her dress, she threw it over the chair, dragging it close to the fire. Seating herself in the other, she sat there, watching the flames. That was another thing he could do that she could not. She wondered if he had really considered how much work she would be. Not that she was afraid that he would leave her. But she dreaded the thought of being a burden to him. 

Still, it felt good to sit in front of the fire. Such a simple act, and yet one she had not enjoyed in years. The heat licked pleasantly across her skin, reminding her what it was like to feel truly warm. The sensation awoke other memories too. She blushed at the thought. But if there was one thing that characterized that... act, it was warmth. Maybe wetness and mess too. Making love had been nothing like she imagined it would be. She did not count her experiences with Joffrey. Those were different, it had not been of her own volition. But she had thought that what happened in the marriage-bed was cleaner, matching the supposed purity of what it symbolized. Perhaps it was, but it certainly had not been with Sandor. She remembered with trepidation the wetness of her own sex, the way it had trickled out of her and onto him. Sandor did not seem like he minded, though. 

Sansa could not help but wonder if they would do it again. If she was somehow allowed to now. Joffrey had taken her maidenhead. Besides which, she was on the run. Marriage had never seemed further off, perhaps it would never even happen. She was ruined, penniless and without family. Except Jon, and maybe Arya. But that was a big maybe. 

She had a feeling that she did not yet fully grasp the implications of all this. Her life had always been headed in one direction; marriage. Now, should she survive, she was free to choose. One thing was certain, she no longer had any honor left to protect. No one would care should she become Sandor's lover. No one would even know. So the true question was, what was it that she wanted? That too seemed overwhelming; whether a captive or not, choices was never something she had had an abundance of. 

The smells emanating from the kitchen served as a good distraction. She was hungry like she had never been before. Her stomach growled in an unlady-like fashion. Impatience got the better of her, and she reentered the kitchen, finding Sandor leaning over a large pot. 

There were peels of various sorts scattering the bench. It appeared that he had done little but peel and cut the vegetables, dumping them all in with some water. It did not altogether look very complicated. Sandor was stirring the concoction with lazy movements, looking up as she entered.

He looked at her like he never had before; lingering and unashamed. His eyes travelled up her form, now only clad in her shift, lingering at her breasts. She could not help but squirm, and tried to figure out whether shame or excitement were the predominant feeling. When his eyes met hers, they appeared hungry.

Dropping the ladle with a small splash, he went to her in two long strides. His movements seemed a curious mix of haste and languid patience. Lifting a hand, he placed it firmly at her waist, drawing her to him. She had hugged him once before today, but without the presence of his armor, it was all the more intimate.

His other hand found her neck, winding it's way underneath her hair, thumb drawing circles on her skin. As her eyes found his, he quirked an eyebrow. She realized it was his way of asking permission. Sansa knew that he liked her. She also knew that he had enjoyed making love to her. Yet, somehow she had imagined he would be more restrained. Maybe because of his anger, because he still blamed her for their remaining in Kings Landing for so long. Apparently anger was no obstacle to desire though. 

She wanted him too, she knew that. But she had expected more time to decide, to sort through all the complicated implications of becoming his lover for true. But while her mind was not made up, her body had long ago decided what it wanted. She had admitted this once before. She could do so again.

Rising on her tiptoes, she braced her hands against his chest, face inching closer to his. He understood her meaning, head descending to meet hers. He took it slow. It seemed as time had suspended as his lips slowly inched closer to hers. She could not take her eyes off of them; one half burned, the other thin but soft-looking. 

They were soft. His pressure was gentle, just a soft brush of lips against lips. And yet, a curious sensation, like a tingling, golden thread, stretched from her lips, down into her stomach, pooling between her legs. Her reaction did not feel in proportion to the touch; such a strong response from such a tentative caress. Yet it did not feel like enough, and so when Sandor's arms tightened around her, pressing her against him, when his lips grew more insistent, it felt right. 

He kissed her with confidence, and she was swept away. That was the only manner it witch she managed to describe it. No hesitation, no thought. If their movements were at times awkward, they did not notice. His lips enclosed around her bottom one, then the top. She mirrored his movement with an automatic ease. It was unlike anything she had ever experienced; something she was proficient in without experience, or even trying. When his tongue swept across her lips, delved into her mouth, slid against her own, it felt natural and undeniably pleasurable. 

She moaned. Then she blushed. The involuntary sound brought with it consciousness; an awareness of what they were doing, how odd it was, how inappropriate she was behaving. But had she not already decided that it didn't matter anymore? That concepts such as propriety were irrelevant now? She decided that they were. It did not matter. Nothing mattered, except kissing, and being kissed, by him.

With gentle nudges and not so gentle pushes, Sandor guided her out of the kitchen, up the stairs. He kissed her all the while, kissed her lips, her throat, cheeks, forehead. She clutched him to her, fisting her hands in his tunic, letting him guide her, kiss her, overwhelm her. 

As they reached the bed he let her go, taking a step back. 

“I want to watch you.”

He was out of breath, his voice deliciously hoarse. 

“Take off your clothes.”

Sansa was glad she had decided to not think, to only feel. As her fingers loosened the strings of her bodice, she was nothing but eager. She noted they shook slightly. As did his, as he began to undress. They were hurried and clumsy, but that was good; there was no need for artifice. Finally naked, she sat on the bed. Sandor was in front of her in an instant. She still felt a little shy at seeing his manhood, so explicit in it's want, leaving no doubt as to what they were about to do. 

He nudged her gently, pushing her further up on the bed. She lay back, her thighs falling apart on their own accord. It felt right as he lay down on top of her, nestled between them. As he kissed her once more, her legs drew up, enclosing his waist. Sandor groaned, his breath pushing into her mouth, his tongue delving after. 

When his arm left it's place beside her head, she knew it was about to happen. His manhood slid against her, between the folds, nudging and teasing, before he pushed into her in one, clean stroke. His movement seemed almost desperate, but as he started to move above her, they were slow and measured. It felt so curious and so good. She knew she was already close to that sensation which she had only felt once before. He felt almost too big and too small at the same time. Too much and not enough. Digging her heals into his bottom, she nudged him, silently asking that he move faster. Sandor obliged, triggering new sensation as his body hit her bottom for every thrust. 

He was panting and groaning, which called her attention to the sounds she herself was making. She had not noticed before, the moans spilling from her own mouth. Had she been an observer to the act, she would have found it obscene. Now, there was nothing more natural. She did not think she would be able to keep silent, even if she should wish it. 

It felt wet and warm and tingling and so much more. There was no use describing the sensation, no words could do it justice. She felt herself grow tighter around him, could hear the indelicate sounds of her own wetness. Sandor's lips found her own, her throat, her breasts. It amplified the sensation inside her. She felt as if she must glow from the heat. 

And then, then there was nothing but warmth and piercing pleasure. It did not matter that her head spun, that she could no longer see. Sandor kept pounding into her with relentless movements, drawing out the pleasure to the point that it might be painful. She didn't know, didn't care. Dimly, she registered the erratic pace of his hips, a loud groan against her neck. 

He was still on top of her when awareness returned. Their bodies were too warm, both drenched in sweat. Sandor's breath was moist against her neck, his body heavy as it lay on top of her. He had completely abandoned any attempt at keeping his own weight, which now rested fully on her. She body was in a similar state of relaxation, and it was a struggle to raise her arm and nudge against his side.

“Get off,” she mumbled, her voice sounding as if from far away. 

It took a moment for him to oblige. Yet oblige he did, sliding off, laying down next to her. His chest was still rising and falling rapidly. 

She tucked herself against his side, placing her head on his chest as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Though they were still too warm, Sandor's arms enclosed around her, pressing her firmly to him. 

“Worth it,” he mumbled.

It took a while for her to register his words. By the time she did, Sandor was already asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gave me a lot of trouble. If there are still some parts that seem messy, or don't make sense, please let me know.


	5. Chapter 5

The King's Landing harbour was never quiet. Ships came and went at all hours, and those sailors not occupied with haling cargo, could usually be counted on to wander about, drinking with their shipmates. And that were in addition to the whores looking for work, and the city watch, looking for unrest. 

Still, there was something to be said for the hour of the wolf, when one could usually count on the sailors being at least somewhat drunk, and the guards preoccupied with the ensuing brawls. With this in mind, Sandor had headed out well after sun-down, sneaking through dirty alleys and the lesser-crowed streets towards the harbour. 

Sansa had fretted incessantly, insisting on bundling him up with her scarf, in addition to his cloak, effectively covering his face. There was nothing to be done about his height though; he made a conspicuous figure whether his face was hidden or not. And while he appreciated the girl's concern for him, he thought it best not to mention all the ways this could still go wrong. 

They had spent a pleasant couple of days, doing little but eating, resting and fucking. There had not been much in the way of conversation. He had little need of it, and while he got the impression that his little bird had plenty to say, for whatever reason she kept her beak mostly shut. She watched him though, seemingly assessing. Although sometimes it seemed distinctly appreciative. Like when she let her fingers trail across his arms and chest, lips following after. For whatever reason, she wanted him. Sandor was not about to question that, so he too kept his mouth shut. 

When earlier in the day, he'd announced his intention of checking the streets and harbour, Sansa had gone pale with worry. She had impressed him though, setting her jaw and giving him a firm nod. Then she kissed him. Plump, soft lips moving firmly against his own. She seemed to have taken a liking to it. His lips were still a little swollen. Sandor had spent the last couple of days intermittently grinning to himself at this unexpected turn of events, and falling into brooding thoughts regarding the journey ahead. He'd also spendt long minutes contemplating her request. 

She had asked him to kill them, should they get caught. And while he dreaded few things more, the thought had somehow instilled a certain calm in him. No matter how things turned out for them, there would be no going back. Whether he would actually be able to do it, was another matter. One he choose not to dwell on. 

Still, as he proceeded down the darkened alley, he felt the tell-tale signs of nervousness. His heart beat in an erratic rhythm, his palms clammy, which was unusual, and buggering irritating to boot. Getting caught was not an option. There were few gold cloacs around, but people were still milling about, drifting in and out of taverns. Most were drunk, but that didn't mean they wouldn't recognize him. So he stuck to the shadows, moving swiftly through the city. 

Despite the task, it was still nice being outside after days cooped up indoors, no matter how pleasant the company. The evening was mild, the winds smelling of autumn. It had rained earlier in the day, the sky still overcast, adding to the darkness. If he were a religious man, he might have thought the gods were with him. 

He reached the harbour without incident. Back pressed against an old warehouse, Sandor looked about, finding the place almost deserted. A good sign. It was quiet, save the rush of the waves and the faraway sound of laugher coming off the ships. Apprising them, he saw plenty of war-galleys, as well as the King's private ships. They would be of no use to him. What he needed was a small boat, lithe and fast, with a foreign captain, preferably one who preferred gold in hand, rather than the promise of a bounty. But it would seem business was slow of late. He counted no more than eight transport-vessels. Most of them were too large, but there were smaller ones as well. One of them would have to do. 

Slinking out of the relative safety of the shadows, he sprinted past the harbour master's offices and warehouses with lithe steps. Wincing for ever bit of strewn glass breaking beneath his feet, he made it to the dock without being seen. Breathing a sigh of relief, he noted once more how hard his heart was hammering. It was unusual for him to feel such, but then he had seldom found it necessary to hide while in combat. It wasn't his style. 

The wooden planks slippery from the previous rain. The heals of his boots tapped audibly against them for every step, but there was really no helping that. Perhaps he ought to have sent Sansa. With her light frame and slippered feet, she would surely make no noise at all. But then again, she would not have been able to find this place, much less offering someone a bribe without getting ripped off and most likely raped in the bargain. Not for the first time, Sandor felt glad not to be of the gentler sex. 

With his dagger hidden up his sleeve, he stepped up on the gangplank of the nearest vessel. It suited his purposes perfectly, being small and unassuming. It was named Nestoris, a braavosi name. Braavos would be as good a place as any. A fitting city for people going into hiding. The waves lapped loudly against the ships hull. If he was cautious and the sailors drunk, they would not be able to hear him approach. Best not to cause a commotion until he was aboard. No one would think twice about unrest on a foreigner's ship, much less a braavosi one. 

The deck seemed abandoned. It was quiet, though light emanated from the deckhouse. He approached on toe-tip, aiming for the nearest window. If he was lucky, he might find the captain alone. Eyes fixed on the door, he approached with caution, intent on reaching it. The night was unusually quiet. All he could hear were the sound of waves and his own steps. 

Then, there came another sound. Another set of steps. They were in time with his own, but slightly louder. Sandor turned, spying about. Creeping across the deck, was another man. The light from the deckhouse glinted off his cloak, revealing it to be the tell-tale gold of the city watch. And where there was one, there was sure to be more. 

He reached the man in two swift strides, dagger gliding into his hand with a flick of the wrist. The man was unsurprisingly nowhere near as fast. His hand made it all the way to the hilt of his sword. Sandor scoffed to himself. A sword. As if that would do him any good when sneaking up on someone. 

It was not a fair fight. Dagger pointed against the other man's neck, Sandor sent him a swift kick in the stomach, then an elbow to the neck. The man crumpled before him, wheezing in pain, unable to call for help. Crouching down, he flipped the man on his back, and set the blade against the his throat once more. 

Sandor's first instinct was to ask how many they were, why they were here, skulking about at such a late hour. But at last reason caught up, and there were no need to ask questions. The unusual lack of people about. The quiet. The lack of guards. They had been laying in ambush all along. He could bloody well kick himself for not realizing sooner. The man's eyes were wide open, his face frozen in terror. Still, it didn't pain him when he shoved the point of his dagger into the man's flesh, tearing sinew and blood-vessels as he went. The gold cloak bleed to death quickly and without a sound. 

Crouching in the growing puddle of blood, Sandor's mind reeled. There could not be too many guards about, or else he would have been caught sooner. Perhaps they had simply stationed them on the ships, thinking it more difficult for him to escape that way. Well, then they ought to have used more men. Still, no matter what their plan, his best option seemed to exit the way he had entered, praying he wouldn't leave bloody footprints for them to follow. 

***

Sansa had not moved since he left. She was still perched in that dilapidated chair, face towards the door. She was pale, and went paler still at the sight of him. 

“What happened?”

Shutting the door behind him and tearing the cloth from his face, he strode towards the staircase, Sansa trailing behind him. 

“We need to get our things, little bird. Gather some food. I will fetch the rest.”

“Did you secure passage? Are we leaving?”

“We're leaving, though not by boat. And no more questions now. Just do as I say.”

He turned, pushing the scarf into her hands. Sansa did not appear satisfied with the answer, but at least some of the worry seemed to leave her. Irritated was better than frightened, he supposed. They did not have many possessions. Nothing but the clothes on their backs and the few odds and ends to be found in the house. He collected the blankets off the bed and the pouch of gold hidden in the floor. Downstairs, Sansa had gathered the few vegetables they'd already dug up in a chair. Her hands were constantly fidgeting with the hem of her sleeves, but otherwise she seemed calm enough. 

Throwing down the blankets and the gold, Sandor proceeded to the kitchen and collected a small pot, as well as the pouch of salt they'd found forgotten in a cupboard. Bundling it all inside one of the blankets, he handed the other to Sansa, then blew out the candles and declared them ready to leave. 

“We're heading for the Old Gate.”

“What happened,” she asked again, clearly not content with leaving him in command. 

“An ambush, little bird. They were clearly expecting us to leave by boat.”

She looked shocked, hand flying to her throat in mortification.

“But that would mean the gates are probably guarded as well. We can't leave now.”

It was not ideal, but neither was staying put. Sandor told her so.

“I killed a gold cloak. Might be they think it's just a random attack, but it happened aboard a ship. They were obviously working with the captains, so they don't really have a reason to suspect the crew. In any case, if they figure it's me, they know we're still here, and we might have to wait weeks for another chance.”

Placing his hand on her back, he guided her towards the door.

“Don't fret so, Sansa. It took a long time before I was spotted, they can't have placed too many guards there. The gates are probably even less secure. But they won't be by tomorrow. You can count on that.”

Mollified at last, Sansa gave him a stern nod before opening the door. During all those years when he'd imagined the moment of their escape, it had never happened like this. But then, he had never been too fond of plans. 

***

Sandor would dearly have liked to steal some horses. He could probably have managed it too. But that would make sneaking past the guards even more difficult, and if they should be discovered, he was not such an idiot as to try and fight astride an untrained nag. Sansa would probably not be too happy about walking, but then he supposed she would be even less happy if he stole from some unsuspecting inn keep. 

Even though the Old Gate was close, it took them a long time; navigating the smaller alleys, and ducking into darkness whenever a member of the city watch strode by. They had been instructed to keep on the lookout for them, most like. But seeing as no one seemed to actually be looking, it appeared as if the watch had given them up for a lost cause. That was good. The men guarding the Old Gate would probably be just as lazy as they always were. The gate was not in much use anymore, and if he'd planned on sneaking past the guards, it would have been an exedingly bad idea. But seeing as they had to escape at night, slipping past them would be impossible anyway. Their only option was to get a drop on the men, killing them before they could raise the alarm. He did not intent on informing Sansa about that earlier than he'd have to. Although, given what she'd suffered and what was at stake, she might not object as vehemently as she once would have. If they should get past in once piece, they gate brought them out north of the city. People would assume they were heading north. Sandor had no such plans.

Though Sansa was small and easy to conceal, her physique had suffered from her time in captivity. She grew quickly out of breath, her legs already strained from the effort of crouching and running. It did not bode well for their journey, should they even get that far. By the time they reached the gate, her limbs were shaking in exhaustion. Slumping against a wall, she tried to regain her breath. He took the opportunity to inform her of what needed to be done.

“Best you stay here for a while. When you hear the gates open, you run.”

“What will you do?” she asked, though it seemed to him as if she already knew. 

“Kill the guards.”

There was no purpose in lying. With Sansa's recent and tentative return to her old self, he braced himself for some sort of objection. But she merely nodded, jaw set, though her eyes would not quite meet his. He could not decide if this placidity was a good thing or not. At the moment it certainly was, but in the long run...

She did give him a kiss before he left though. It was hasty, their cheekbones clashing together, lips more pressing than caressing. He appreciated it nonetheless. Putting the bundle of blankets and food down, he left her huddled in the shadow of some old house, clinging to a whole were the bricks were gone, trying to remain upright. 

Sandor proceeded, dagger once more in hand. It made him all the more appreciative of his sword. Daggers and stilettos were for quiet assassinations. Swords were honest. They gave a man a chance to defend himself, even if that chance was small, should it be his sword they met. The wall provided extra cover, casting the entire street in shadow. At the end of it he spied a guard, the gold of his cloak visible even in the darkness. The man was trudging back and forth, appearing bored and inattentive. There ought to be at least one other guard, at the top of the tower. It was thin and rickety, the mortar and stone crumbling little by little as the centuries past. Unlike the other gate-towers in King's Landing, this one lacked a roof, making it easy to ascertain how many guards there were. He could even have killed them from here, had he brought his bow along. But his bow was still stowed in his room at the keep, and the tower appeared empty. It was well into the night by now, dawn approaching fast. While he would have liked more time to reconnoitre, they were running out of time. 

Sandor approached the guard, sliding silently along the wall. It went quickly and without much fuss. Creeping up behind him, Sandor made swift work of the mans neck, catching him as he crumpled and lowered him silently to the ground. Still unable to find a second guard, he approached the tower-door. The leaver to open the gate was inside, and, Sandor suspected, a guard shirking his duties. Sheathing his dagger, he drew his sword instead. It was impossible to break down a door with stealth. With his good ear pressed against the door, the tried to discern any noises. 

At first all seemed quiet. The stillness seemed to press against his eardrums, almost as if it were a sound all on it's own. He became aware of the sound of his breath, and the blood pumping past his ears. But behind the quiet noise of his own breath, he could discern the clinking of armour and a low muttering. There were more guards here after all, most likely more than one.

The tower was not particularly big, but could still accommodate perhaps a twelve average-sized men if they crammed together. He could not fight twelve men. There might be no more than two, but then why would they keep quiet? Like the harbour, this was an ambush, he was certain of that. 

Sansa was startled when he reached her again. Still slumping against the wall, she suddenly shot to her feet, ready to run until she saw who it was. 

“Did you do it? Did you open the gate?”

The little bird could be so dense at times. He sighed. 

“No. Too many guards.”

Her head hung, defeated. 

“Don't fret, we might still get out. They're all hiding inside the tower. There's no one outside. If we can scale the building, they will never even know we passed.”

This did not cheer her. Still, she seemed to collect herself and fixed him with a stern gaze.

“You will make it past. We both know I am unable to climb anything. Even if my constitution were better, it would still be impossible.”

“Daft bird, I have no intention of leaving you. We'll both make it past, you'll see.”

Blanket in one hand, her hand in the other, he led them back towards the gate. Rather then head for the door, he brought them to the south-facing wall. The tower was not all that tall, it's uneven surface perfect for climbing. As long as the crumbling stone held. He lay her hand against the wall, guiding it across the ridges. Fitting her dainty fingers into a gap, he made her take hold.

“Here, give me the blanket.”

She passed it to him, but looked dubious nonetheless. 

“It's no more difficult than climbing a ladder.”

It occurred to him that Sansa might never even have used a ladder. She hadn't, most like. Still, he gave her bottom a pat to get her going. She obliged, despite the crudeness of his instruction. Tying the blanket-bundle to his back with hers, wincing at every sound they made, he followed after. 

It went excruciatingly slow. About halfway, Sansa made a stop, breathing heavily. Her arms and legs had begun shaking again. But while Sansa was woefully weak, he did not fare much better himself. His body was heavy, the stone dissolving underneath him as he went. If they paused for much longer, he would fall.

“Sansa,” he hissed. “Move!”

“I can't”

Her voice seemed more scared than strained, however. Maybe it was something other than tiredness that made her pause. That was one too many problems to be dealing with.

“Either you climb, or we get caught,” Sandor hissed. “Just don't look down, we're almost there.”

Feeling his feet beginning to slip, he searched for another purchase, but they all fell away the moment he put weight on them. If one of the bigger rocks should fall, it would alert every gold clock in the area. 

“Bugger this.”

Giving up on the foothold, hanging on with his hands alone, he scrambled sideways, trying to find a part of the wall a little less damaged. That seemed to get her moving. His feet scratching against the wall, he found hold at last. Together they made it, side by side and ever so slowly, to the top of the tower. 

It was empty, thank the gods. Sansa staggered over the edge and sank to the floor, while he seized the moment to look about. The other side appeared blissfully free of soldiers; there were nothing but muddy fields. The street behind them were still empty. Taking a moment to calm himself, he too sat down. 

“We're fine. No one heard us.” 

She managed a shaky smile, hands clutching at her side. 

“I apologize,” she whispered. “I did not even know I was afraid of heights until I thought I might fall.”

Grabbing her hand, he gave it a squeeze before drawing them both to their feet. 

“Best get moving. Sun's almost up.”

She kissed him again. It was less desperate, more tender. Her breath was still coming fast, pushing past his lips. She could have easily made him forget himself, forget this entire situation. Breaking the kiss before he actually did, Sandor gave her a smile that he hoped seemed reassuring. 

This time he went first. If she should fall, he might be able to catch her, or at the very least cushion her landing. She was tentative, but seemed more confident in her movements. Sandor too began to feel more secure. They might just survive this yet. 

Step by careful step, they descended the tower, ears pricked for sounds of the people on the other side of the wall. The entire city seemed quiet now, every tavern and brothel closed, every drunken soul asleep, and the gold cloaks as ignorant as ever. 

The ground was soft and wet, squelching beneath his feet as he reached the ground. Stretching his arms out, Sansa took the hint and jump the rest of the way, into his arms. She no longer looked scared. She hugged him tight as he lowered her to the ground. He must look just as relieved as her, no doubt. He had a hard time reminding himself that danger was far from over. It was unpleasant, forcing himself back intro that alert nervousness. But such were the cost of survival. 

Sansa looked around, noticing where they were. Her face seemed to light up.

“Are we heading north?”

“No, not right away at least.”

“Then where?”

“They'll expect us to go north. It will be better to head south. We'll find a harbour, and decide where we'll go from there.”

The field was vast, extending from the bay and meeting up with the tourney-grounds. It was mostly mud, so close to the city-walls, but farther off the grass stood tall and autumn-yellow, and beyond that there were trees. With dawn fast approaching there was no time to loose. He took Sansa's hand, and together they headed towards the forest.


	6. Chapter 6

They walked for the better part of the day. Trudging through tall grass and obstinate bushes, she asked Sandor if he thought they were being followed, if they could take a rest, if there was much farther to go. Though he did not appear sullen, neither was he very forthcoming. Perhaps he was beginning to tire too. 

Sansa gathered that though he had killed two guards, the city watch had no way of knowing whether they had made their escape or not. Thusly, they did not know if they were being chased. It appeared as if Sandor assumed the worst. As her mind drifted to thoughts of her sore and swollen feet, the ache in her head and legs, the agony of an empty stomach, she resented him ever so slightly. Had she been on her own, she would surely had lain down to rest long ago, submitting to her bodies needs. Despite the pain and resentment, whenever her eyes landed on his broad back, she remembered what was at stake. 

Sandor had quickly dismissed the notion of heading north. At least right away. Though initially disappointing, Sansa now found that she was glad. She missed the north. She missed the heaths with it's ling in bloom and the smell of pine and cold, so different from King's Landing. Most of all, she missed Winterfell. But what would the north be without her family. What joy would there be in picking heath-flowers without her mother, or walking through the godswood without her father. Without Arya to chase her or to chase in turn, without her brothers to mock and console her, Winterfell would be a hollow place. Without her family, the north was just a cold and vast wasteland, and no longer her home. 

She supposed home would be with Sandor now, in whatever place he brought them to. If he said Dorne, it would be Dorne, if he said Essos, then that's where she'd go. As long as he was with her, it did not matter. Sansa could not determine where they were headed. Keeping to the forest, the trees growing thick on either side, there was no way of knowing. But he'd said he'd take them south. That would mean they would have to circle back, past King's Landing. They must be close to the city still. 

As morning turned to high-noon, the sky darkened with rain. It was a curious sensation at first; the drops tickling her scalp and shoulders. How long had it been since she last stood in the rain? Years, most like. Her elation was short-lived, however, as her cloak grew heavy and the ground turned to mud. Sandor did not appear put out in the least. 

“This is good news,” he said when he saw her miserable expression. “If they've brought dogs, they'll have a hard time finding us now.” 

With this in mind, she felt a little more forgiving both towards Sandor and the rain. Still, her slippers were caked in mud, slipping against the ground. The thin soles did little to protect her feet, twigs and rocks poking them with every step. 

“Is it still far?”

Sandor grunted, same as with every other time she'd posed this question. 

Though her mind knew what was at stake, it would seem as if her body did not. Her legs had begun to cramp, her feet growing more tender by every step. She did not want to tell him; he might insist that they stop. Also, she suspected that he would not like her lack of endurance. But as they descended a steep slope, her legs made the decision for her, buckling underneath her. Though she had been waiting for that very moment, it still came as a surprise when she tumbled to the ground. As she lay on the mud and grass, she knew herself to be unable to get up. 

Sandor turned. He did not seem annoyed, but looked at her appraisingly. His gaze landed at her feet. He was at her side in quick strides, lifting her into his arms. Then, without another word, he walked on. 

He was just as filthy and wet as herself, but with a warmth that to her, seemed inhuman. Draping her arms around his neck, she tucked her hands under his collar, warming them. Though he winced at the contact, he did not complain, but seemed content with the silence. 

It would have been rather nice if not for the rain. Cradled as she was, she rested her head against his chest, watching the scenery glide by. The leaves where displaying shades of green and yellow, the fat tree-trunks covered in moss. There was such a freshness to the air, and through the steady tapping of the rain, she could hear birdsong.

“I thought all the birds had flown south by now.”

“Not all the birds. The last one's flying now.”

Sandor grinned, giving her a pointed look. Had she been less of a lady, she would have rolled her eyes. 

“Do some of them remain through winter?”

“Some. Magpies, robins. I saw a woodpecker once. And there's plenty of crow. Always good for a meal if you can't find anything else.”

Scavenging on the scavengers. She certainly hoped they wouldn't have to resort to that. 

“I thought your maester taught you things like that.”

“He might have. It's been such a long time. I left Winterfell by my twelfth nameday.”

She probably hadn't paid attention anyway. At that time, winter seemed such a long way away, more like a scary story than something real. 

“How many winters have you seen?”

“Three, thought I can't remember the first.”

A winter-child. He had the look of one. She studied him, assessing his features. He seemed more at ease now, apparently happier talking about birds than their destination. 

“You look like a northman. Is there any of the north in you?”

“I suppose that must be a compliment, coming from you,” Sandor chuckled. “Not that I know. Though remember my line only spans a couple of generations. Commonfolk aren't as interested in that as you nobles.”

“But surly your parents told you stories?”

“No.”

And then he was back to being sullen again. It he did not altogether look very different from when he was happy. Still, she felt she could tell the difference. Perhaps it was not so much his expressions as the way he carried himself, the sudden tensing of his shoulders. So she kept quiet, waiting him out. He trudged along at a steady pace, through thickets and bushes and long, weedy grass. It made no matter to him, his legs cutting through it all like warm butter. With the gentle swaying of his gait and the steady drumming of the rain, Sansa soon felt sleepy. Burrowing her face into the crook of his neck, she closed her eyes, giving in to exhaustion. 

***

When she woke, she was laying on the ground, the blankets folded over her. Between the folds in the fabric, she could spy grass, bent over with dew. The drops travelled down the stems, seeping into the earth, filling it, making it brim over. Her cloak was entirely soaked through. 

Struggling out of the blankets, Sansa sat up. Sandor was nowhere to be seen, though she knew he would not have gone far. Taking a moment, she took stock of her body. She felt better, though there was still a dull ache in her feet and legs. She needed to eat. She needed warmth and new shoes too, though most of all she needed to make water. Not daring to walk too far off, she squatted down where she was, though a little ways away from the blankets. Should Sandor return now, it would have been embarrassing. But perhaps fatigue had it's advantages, given that she could hardly find it in herself to care about that. 

After she was finished, her mind felt more at ease as well. Their escape did not seem quite as insurmountable now. Still, as her confidence in their plan grew, so did her awareness of her own uselessness. She did not know how to make a fire or build a shelter. She could not hunt. Not for game, and certainly not for shoes. Dependence had never seemed like a bad thing. Not before, when everyone knew their tasks. It seemed like the only way a lady was meant to live; either within stone walls, surrounded by a host of servants, or not at all. A lady without a keep or a family was no lady at all. But this realization was not an unwelcome one. She felt indifferent, rather. Maybe she was still a lady, maybe not. It was irrelevant. 

Sandor came back. He was carrying a rabbit, already skinned and field-dressed. He looked dour, grasping her hand and tugging her behind him. 

“Shall I gather some wood?” she asked. Her fingers were as soft as a horse's muzzle, but she was determined to be of use. Sandor dismissed the notion at once.

“We'll not have a fire tonight. Still too close to the city.”

“You mean to say that we shall eat the rabbit raw?”

She had been willing to let her hands grow callused and dirty, her hair tangled and arms strong. Apparently she did not yet fully grasp the challenges of the forest. But Sandor only chuckled, shaking his head.

“No, little bird. It's for tomorrow.”

He threw the rabbit to the ground, his carelessness making her wince, despite the animal being already dead. He followed suite, lowering himself down on a thick and twisted root. 

“I'll need some rest before we go on.”

“Do you need a blanket?”

Sandor shook his head. His back braced against the old and gnarly trunk, he looked perfectly comfortable. Wild and dirty, like a creature of the forest. She perched herself next to him, head on his shoulder, and followed him into sleep. 

***

Sandor must have been tired. He was still sleeping when she awoke. There were deep, dark circles underneath his eyes. His lashes fluttered. They were prettier than her own, long and dark, where hers were short and pale. Sansa wondered at what he would say, should she point it out. She could imagine his roaring laugh, how his eyes would crinkle at the corners. The thought elicited a queer feeling in her chest and stomach. It was reminiscent of pity, but lacked the condescension. Perhaps it was tenderness; Sandor ought to be happy. 

Placing a hand on his shoulder, she let it trail across it, reaching his cheek. Cupping it gently, stroking the blackened skin there, she watched as his eyelids slowly fluttered open, and the momentary look of confusion as his mind struggled to wake. 

“'Morning.”

His voice was raspy and warm.

“Good morning.”

“How do you feel?”

“Very well, thank you.”

Sandor snorted.

“It was not a courtesy, my lady. Move your arms and legs.”

She did as told, stretching her limbs, finding them stiff and slow to respond. There was an ache in her thighs, stomach and arms from last nights exertion.

“It does ache a bit, but I'm sure I will be fine.”

He had a non-committal noise. 

“And your feet. How are they?”

Sansa had not considered that. While her body was sore, her feet were numb. She flexed them fearfully, finding that they moved, though she could still not feel it. Sandor lifted her into his lap, grabbing one foot and divesting it of it's slipper. He poked and prodded, making various grunting sounds. She could not tell what he was looking for, only that he seemed displeased. 

“We need proper clothes,” was all he said. “But it's better if you try and walk yourself. You need the warmth. 

He stood, lowering her carefully down on the ground. Fetching their few belongings and handing her and old, soft carrot to break her fast on, he declared them ready to leave. 

***

They walked in what Sansa perceived to be miserable silence. While the previous day had certainly been exhausting, it was also fueled by the elation of being free. Now, as morning turned to midday, she felt a mounting worry. Aside from the issue of Joffrey, they, or at least she, did not have proper clothes. Autumn was already here, and despite being southbound, they blankets would soon be unable to ward off the nightly chills. They had no horses and few provisions. And while she had plenty to fret over, her largest worry was the knowledge that if Sandor had been alone, he would be just fine. If they should get caught, it would be her fault. 

Sandor declared that they would save the rabbit for later, when it would be safer to build a fire. It hung by it's tiny feet from his belt, swaying with every step. It was a revolting sight, and it made her sad. She tried to look elsewhere, but the swaying of the tiny body drew her eye. Sandor had caught it with his bare hands. They didn't have any traps, but the animal was old and slow. It was easy pray, he said. 

The forest grew ever denser around them. Sandor told her that they had passed King's Landing by, though how he knew, she had no idea. The forest floor was soft, but there were twigs and pebbles all around, digging into her tender feet. By early afternoon, her pace had slowed considerably. 

“Do you know where we're headed?”

Sansa could not fathom how anyone would be able to navigate this dense wood. Sandor muttered a confirmation, but did not expand. 

“Then, where are we headed.”

“Stonedance.”

“Sonedance?”

“Aye.”

“Why?”

“There are ships in Stonedance.”

His disposition seemed sour, so she kept silent after that. She suspected the wet and the cold and the hunger had it's effects on him as well. At least he did not complain about their slow pace, though she knew it must annoy him. As afternoon turned into evening, he declared that they had walked far enough for one day, and set about collecting firewood. 

Sansa tried to help, but every twig she brought was either the wrong sort or too wet. She did not know whether this was actually the case, or whether he was just being petulant, but did not press the matter. By the time he was crouching on the ground, coaxing out smoke and flame, Sansa was huddled on another big root, almost asleep. 

She noted his movements, but was too sluggish to consider why he was doing it. Having finished the preparations, he sat down next to her, lifting her into his lap. It seemed he liked holding her as much as she liked being held. She noted all these things, mentally compiling a list in all the ways they fit together. Sometimes she wondered if the gods had fashioned them for each other. She did not ask him though, knowing his scorn of the gods. He patted her back, his nose pressed into her hair. His hands were so warm. As he cupped her cheeks, they felt nearly searing against her skin. When he kissed her, sending heat back into her lips, they tingled pleasantly. 

Fearing that he might want to lay with her now, she broke the kiss. He did not appear annoyed, but simply tucked her head against his chest, holding her close. It was curious how his moods turned, one moment brusque, tender in the next. 

“We'll cross the roads tomorrow. The rose road, then the king's road.”

“Will it be dangerous, do you think?”

He sighed, her body rising and sinking with the movements of his chest. 

“Aye. But no more than this.”

“If they suspect our route...”

“They won't. Joffrey has sent soldiers in every direction, most like, but they won't know where we are. Or even that we've left King's Landing.”

“But the watchmen you killed?”

“They don't know it's me. And even if they suspect, they won't know that we left. All they can know is that we've tried.”

He nudged her out of his lap, placing her gently down on the root. He picked up a stick and set to stirring the small pot he'd brought with, now filled with water and bits of rabbit and old vegetables. It was not even boiling yet. They would wait a long time for dinner. Sansa was hungry, thought that was probably nothing compared to how he felt. Although, she reminded herself, he had proper boots, she had none. Perhaps their discontent were equally matched. 

Sandor sat back down next to her, blankets in hand. Lifting her back into his lap, he tucked them around her. 

“There's some hunting lodges near the roads. They'll all be abandoned now, most like. But we might be able to find some snares. Mayhap even some shoes.”

“You'll have to teach me.”

At that, Sandor laughed. The movements of his chest were pleasant against her cheek. 

“Ladies don't hunt. At least not with snares.”

“I'm not a lady anymore. At least I don't think I am.”

“You're the most ladylike lady I've ever met. And I've spent years at court.”

When she didn't respond, he continued.

“It's more to being a lady than family or wealth. It's how you're brought up. The way you move and talk and think.”

“Maybe I'm not like that anymore.”

“You are,” he said, his tone dismissive. 

“Still,” she pressed on. “I do not even know how to build a fire. I cannot cook or hunt or navigate. I'm quite... helpless.”

As she talked, it occurred to her that maybe that's how Sandor preferred her. For all his mockery of nobility and their ways, it seemed he did not want her any other way. 

“I'll take care of you,” he muttered into her hair. 

“But... We would stand a better chance if I could help. And what if something happened. What if you're not around.”

Sandor grew still. His arms lay heavy across her back, the rise and fall of his torso his only movement. Next he spoke the sun had set, the soup at a violent boil. 

“Nothing's going to happen, little bird. But I'll teach you, if you want.”

“What will you teach me?”

“Anything you want to know.”

She then proceeded to list them all, while he nodded and mumbled his agreements. He did not seem angry nor happy. There was a resignation to his voice that she could not quite puzzle out. As he lifted the pot from the fire, he finally voiced his displeasure.

“You're not angry then?”

“Angry?”

He gave her a furtive look, before fixing his gaze back at the pot.

“You are a great lady, reduced to the state of a bum. If I were you, I'd be angry.” 

Of all the ways to consider their escape, this was not one she'd contemplated. She looked at him as he added salt to the pot, his movements economic and precise. He did not appear as if he cared about her answer either way, and she was not arrogant enough to suppose that he felt shame as to the manner of their escape. But something was troubling him, that much was clear.

“I'm not. I suppose I am angry about how I was treated. What Joffrey did to me. And to you. I'm angry at the small council for not doing anything. I am angry at my self, at the person I was. Sometimes I'm even angry at father for placing honor above family. The only person I'm not angry at, is you.”

Sandor did not seem overly moved by this speech. She knew that he could not say the same. He was angry at her, very much so, for not acquiescing to their escape. She had thought of telling him her reasons many times during the past days. He ought to know, and there were no reason for her not to tell him. But she suspected he would be angry, and, having no energy to fight, she let it lie for the present. 

***

They crossed the rose road without incident. They had both grown quite sulky, the elation of their freedom short-lived. Sansa contemplated this in order to keep her mind off the hunger and the ache of her feet. She had longed for this moment, imagining it with such clarity it almost felt real. Then, as her captivity wore on, it became a wild and distant dream. But the mind had a strange habit of focusing on present ills, and though her past ones put them in perspective, it did not make it any more pleasant. 

When they found the small cottage nestled between the two roads, her mood soared anew, until Sandor informed her that they couldn't stay. It was little more than a shed, it's roof patchy and it's door crumbling, it's insides damp and moldy. Yet to Sansa, it had a certain charm, and she would have liked to stay, at least for a night. 

Sinking down on a rickety bench, she observed Sandor as he examined the place. He rifled through a small chest, fishing out a threadbare blanket and a small knife. There was a flint-stone by the hearth that he pocketed as well. There were all sorts of tools on pegs along the walls. He dismissed most of them, although he seemed pleased when he came across others; a stick with a wire attached to it, an empty leather bag, an empty wineskin and a pair of rusty scissors. The last item he handed to Sansa, along with the bag. 

“For your feet,” he explained. 

It was not the shoes she had imagined, but she set to without complaint. Meanwhile Sandor repacked their blankets, tucking the newfound treasures inside. The scissors turned out to be too rusty, so Sandor took his dagger, making quick work of the tough leather. He then tied the scraps around her feet, regarding them with satisfaction. 

“It won't keep you dry, but it'll protect them some.”

Then he kissed her lightly on the forehead. It was such a sweet gesture, she almost felt like crying. 

He gestured for them to leave, and Sansa cast one last look around the room. It was shabby and dirty, yet for some reason leaving it left her feeling a strange melancholy. Sandor left the door open behind them. It swung slowly too and fro, signaling the emptiness inside. 

Once they were back in the woods, she soon forgot her sadness and the old house. Sandor's mood had turned. He seemed more energetic now, more free in a way Sansa had never seen him before. It served to remind her that while there were aspects of his character that she knew well, in other regards he remained a mystery. There were almost something childlike in his excitement as he showed her the stick with the wire, explaining that it was a snare. By his reckoning it would seem that hunger was now a thing of the past.

“I'll show you, when we make camp. It's easy enough to set up, though you won't like what comes after.”

“I thread on a mouse once, when I was a little girl. It's the only time I've ever killed anything.”

She could still recall the sensation of the tiny body flattened underneath her foot. She had screamed and cried, though it had not been for the mouse. Sandor regarded her warily, as if he suspected that that might be her reaction now as well. He did not like it when she cried. 

“You will have to show me how to do it.”

They travelled onwards, crossing the king's road. The forest was just as dense, the ground just as wet, but her shoes and Sandor's buoyant mood made the going easier. After they made camp, Sandor took her out between the bushes and trees to demonstrate how the snare worked. He was a good teacher, never impatient as she had suspected he might be. It did seem to make him a little sad however. Sansa suspected that he could not stop dwelling on the instances were she might need to do this alone. But as they returned the next morning, finding fowl instead of a rabbit, and she killed it with one determined twist of it's neck, he looked at her with unmistakable pride. It was a wonderful sensation.


	7. Chapter 7

Sansa was making a fire. She was trying to, at any rate. Her small, pale fingers were dotted with blisters, and several of her fingernails were torn. Her progress was slow, and she did not look like she enjoyed it overmuch, but refused his attempt at taking over. In the meanwhile, Sandor had built a lean-to, with a roof thick enough to hold out the rain, and a floor of moss and leaves. Having completed his task, he was growing impatient. 

She had asked him what sort of wood to use while leaning against a spruce-tree, every word punctuated by her heavy breathing. Sandor complied, pointing out the dead and dry twigs underneath the spruce's prickly greens. 

«You see how it grows, the branches pointing downward. It keeps the twigs underneath dry.»

She had nodded, trailing her fingers over the brown twigs, a contepmlative look on her face as if this required a great deal of thought. 

They had made similar stops throughout the day, with Sandor pointing out suitable kindling and Sansa nodding eagerly. There was determination in her, but few smiles. He supposed he ought to be satisfied with this. After all, she never complained. That would have made this trip truly insufferable. When evening fell at last, she had flitted off on her own in search of wood, leaving him to skin the rabbit. It would seem that dinner was still a ways off however; Sansa had yet to produce a single spark from the stones, no matter how many times she struck. 

It was raining. They had woken up with the sunrise, dew misting the air. By noon it had turned to fat drops, heavy and slow and cold. By evening most of the darker clouds had passed on, the water falling lightly, softly, almost without sound. And yet, if she did not hurry up, the kindling would be soaked. 

Pushing himself off the ground with a sigh – which must surely be a sign of middle age - he was at her side in a couple of strides. Sansa drew her hands back in an automatic gesture, hiding the flint in her skirts. Her obstinacy was childish, and yet he found himself feeling endeared to it. And when he placed his hand over hers she did not resist. 

In his strong hands the flints sparked at once. He had almost hoped it would take more, saving the girl's pride, but the wood was already wet enough, the kindling giving off more smoke than flame. Sansa's hands lay open in her lap. It was no wonder she had been unsuccessful, her fingers and palms coverd in blisteres, some if which had burst. And yet, she had not once complained...

«Watch me,» he instructed. 

Leaning over the modest sparks, he blew them into cautious flames. They would not catch easily, not in this weather. He knew this, was perfectly aware of it. Yet the smell of the smoke and the crackling kindling invariably brought with it a feeling of fear. Where there was a flame, there was this feeling, and by the Stranger if he didn't hate it. 

Sitting back up, he saw he had withdrawn too quickly. He instructed Sansa to do as he had, in an effort to cover his shame. If she noticed, she did not let on, although she was probably too well-mannered to say so anyway, dirty fingernails or no. 

«Don't blow too hard, it will snuff out the flame.»

She set too, and soon the flames grew, licking and dancing their way across the sodden wood. 

It took several trips, searching out more dry branches, before the fire truly took hold. Sansa coughed constantly, looking rather displeased with the smoke, but otherwise giving no signs of her displeasure. 

It was well past dark when they could finally eat. There were no more vegetables, and despite the season they had not been able to find any edible flora on their way. But the rabbit was tender, the broth salty and warming, if slightly thin. They ate quickly and in silence, after which Sansa wiped her chin as demurely as if she was still at court. His previous annoyance was soon chased away by the feeling of near fullness and the sight of her contented expression and impeccable manners. 

«Come here, girl,» he said, patting his lap. 

Giving him a knowing look, she did as bid, placing her pert rear right on his crotch. Tucking her head underneath his chin, she sighed. It seemed to him a happy sound. Stroking his chest with the back of her hand, he was reminded of their state. 

«Give me your hands.»

«They're fine, Sandor. It's nothing but a few blisters.» 

«Maybe, though I bet it still hurts.»

Her sigh seemed less contented when she said «everything hurts.»

«Aye, that might be. But you can't get a spark if you can't strike the flint hard enough. And with the state of those fingers, I'll wager that near impossible. You should have told me.»

«I'm used to pain.»

It was not the reply he had hoped for, but there was once again that stubborn obstinacy in her voice, where before there had been little but listless resignation. It was an odd thing, to feel pride on someone else's behalf. 

As the rain picked up, he carried her into the shelter. It was crude, but worked as intended, and with a bed of soft moss and their cloaks and blankets, it made quite the cosy little nest. Fat drops gathered on the end of green needles, falling with soft-sounding drips. The rain did not reach them however, and though their cloaks were wet, they were not cold. 

Sansa burrowed into him, placing her head on his chest. It was an unusual intimacy, but one he had found he enjoyed. Pulling her closer, he let his hands skim up and down her back, reaching down and cupping her rear. She was thin, and growing thinner still, but there was still a bit of plumpness to it. He began squeezing, massaging it gently. She did not like it when he was rough. At least not most of the time. 

«Sandor,» she muttered, face pressed against his chest. «I apologize, but I'm too tired.» 

«It's fine, Little Bird. We don't have to do anything. I just want to touch.» 

Sansa nodded her consent, though she did not reciprocate, her hands no doubt too painful for caresses. She did make a noise of apparent satisfaction though, when his other hand slid across her body, lightly fondling a breast. He stroked and toyed, careful to avoid the nipple untill she began to squirm. 

«Sandor,» she said again, this time in impatience. He grinned, knowing he had won. 

Cupping her breast fully, he extracted his other hand from beneath her, drawing up her skirt. Underneath her thighs were warm and soft, quivering as he stroked them ever so lightly. Disentangling them, he pushed up on one elbow while she lay down, sighing, trying to keep still. Her breathing was already coming fast, her legs falling open in expectation. She had come to crave their couplings faster and with rather more enthusiasm than he had expected. All it took was a few gentle caresses before she was wet and ready. She usually rebuffed him at first, claiming exhaustion. Sandor didn't know if she was only pretending, not wanting to seem wanton, or if his attentions made her forget how tired she actually was. It didn't really matter. 

He licked her lips, tasting salt there. They were cold and so very soft. The feeling of them, of her thighs and teats made his heart pound, his breathing ragged. She pressed her lips against his own, her delicate nose bumping against his too large one. Sansa had proven a fast and eager learner, mimicking his movements to find what he liked. Her tongue swept along his lips and into his mouth.

Kissing her had proven an unexpected pleasure. It made his cock hard, to be sure, but it also created strange little tingles in his belly. There was something both filthy and delightful in it, and when she sucked on his tongue, he groaned with the pleasure. 

Deeming her sufficiently warmed up, his fingers sought out her cunt. He stroked it tentatively, the fabric of her small-clothes still between them, delighting in her soft, surprised cry. Her hands made for his tunic, but her fingers were too clumsy. Drawing back, he undressed within moments. Helping her with her laces, she soon were naked too, lying prostrate and panting underneath him. 

He descended for another kiss, this time on her breast. A hand found the other, pinching and teasing it. Her nipples had grown small and hard, making perfect little pebbles for him to suck on. As he took it into his mouth, her legs enfolded his hips, drawing him towards her in an unmistakable gesture. Sandor was in no hurry though. Leaving one breast for another, he let his fingers trail along her skin. Down her belly, across her mound, finally finding her lips. They were delightfully slippery, her cunt inside dripping. Letting a fingertip skim the folds and dips of her cunt, he basked in the sensation of flesh that was wet and warm for him. 

Sansa was growing ever more impatient. Pressing her arm between them, she reached for his cock.

«Your hands are too cold,» he muttered, voiced muffled by a mouthful of breast. 

«Then enter me. Please.»

He would grant that request, no doubt about it. Slipping a finger inside her, she moaned loudly, legs falling further apart. He thrust it slowly in and out, taking note of the feel of her. She was so soft inside. Soft as silk. The only silk a man would ever want. The only better way to feel her cunt was with his own sex. Withdrawing his hand, he positioned himself, teasing them both for a moment with the tip against her entrance. 

They both groaned loudly as he entered her. The sensation of a cunt, warm and tight and moist, was one he would never tire of. He had used to think that one was much like another, and yet there seemed to be something special about Sansa's, though he could not quite determine what that was. 

Her limbs enclosed his body as her cunt enveloped his cock. His patience had evaporated the moment of entry, and withdrawing quickly, he pounded back into her, setting a relentless pace. Burying his face in the crook of her neck, he saw nothing but shades of red. But with the sounds Sansa was making, he had no need to see her face in order to know that she was enjoying it. She was moaning with abandon, and cute though her timid cries were, he preferred her like this; naked and panting and wet, all thoughts of propriety and dignity chased away by the feel his cock. 

It did not last very long. Sansa's cries built with her pleasure, and soon enough she was singing her release as her cunt rippled and contracted around him. It would seem like her peak was created to bring about his own, the increasing wetness and tightness being too much to resist. His hips stuttering and pounding, he pulled out at the last moment. Face buried in hair and earth, he came with a sobbing groan, covering her belly in his sticky seed. 

Time passed. He could not say how much. Letting himself sink into the soft foundation, every limb grew pleasantly numb. Sansa was laughing. He was not certain when she had repositioned herself, but they were now back where they'd started, with her head on his chest, his arms around her torso. The vibrations from her laughter reverberated from her lungs, seeping into his own. 

«Something amusing?»

She did not answer at first. Fingers trailing through the hair on his chest, laugher continued to bubble out of her. 

«No. I'm not certain.»

Blushing and grinning, she rubbed her forehead and cheek against his skin. The gesture was reminiscent of that of a cat. When she spoke again, her voice was languid and deep. 

«I'm just happy, I suppose.»

***

He woke with the sun. Small tendrils of light poked between treet-runks and leaves. The sky was blessedly cloud-free, it would seem the rain had finally let up. The woods still smelled of moisture, earthy and fresh. Fat drops of water gathered on the topmost branch of their shelter, seeming reluctant to fall. Sansa was still curled around him, naked, small hands tucked against his torso. Her breathing was deep and even, the girl still fast asleep. 

Shaking her awake, he fumbled around for their clothing. They lay in heap by their feet, the fabric damp and cold. Curse him, he should have hung them to dry. At the very least, their cloaks had dried up during the night, kept warm by the heat of their bodies. Sansa made a low squeal as he threw her her dress, discarding it to the ground in an instance. 

«It's wet.»

She sounded so indignant, he had to laugh. 

«Aye, Little Bird. Someone forgot to get dressed last night.»

Pushing up on her elbows, the cloak fell from her breast, bunching about her stomach. Despite the cold, she did not look remotely prepared to put on the sodden garment. 

«And I'm not going to now either. Can we not wait for it to dry?»

Enjoying the sight of her, naked and unabashed, he spotted his seed, now crusted on her belly. Following his gaze, she looked down at herself and scratched the white flakes away with a dirty finger. 

«Why did you do that?»

«Do what, Little Bird?»

She blushed a little, her eyes struggling to meet his.

«You know. When you... pulled out.»

Such an innocent young thing. Did she not even know how babes were made? Surely her septa must have told her that much.

«So you don't get with child. I should have done so from the start, only I didn't think... I didn't think.»

She seemed to be more curious than horrified. Gaze returning to the seed still glued to her skin, she picked it off, watching the flakes fall. 

«It feels strange.»

He laughed, which in turn evoked a smile. She looked so pretty like that, with her hair unbound, naked and smiling. 

«I suppose it would not really matter anymore. No one knows us in Braavos. No one knows who we are or care what we do.»

«It matters. No matter where you are in the world, it matters. Besides, the time might come when you'll want to go back.» 

«Still, I wouldn't mind carrying your child.»

He didn't answer, but handed her back the dress, perhaps more brusquely than warranted. 

«We should get moving. It's already late enough.»

***

After cheeking the snares and finding nothing, he looked over the few supplies they had. Sansa's dress was muddy and torn. She needed something warmer. She needed proper shoes as well. But that was only the top of a very long list. A horse would have been nice. As would a proper bedroll, a thicker cloak, a tent. Hells, at this point he would pay an entire gold dragon for a new pair of socks. 

Game had proven surprisingly hard to come by. Such was the hunter's luck, but if it did not turn soon, he feared for their progress. Sansa's bad condition and even worse shoes already made the going slow. The last thing they needed was to be slowed down by empty stomachs and fatigue. 

He had tucked his gold at the bottom of the satchel. As he repacked, he saw them there, glinting at him, taunting him. It made their present condition all the more galling; all that money, and nothing to spend it on. Or rather, no one. Sandor was not overly familiar with this part of the King's Wood, but there ought to be at least a few small villages scattered here and there. If nothing else, he knew for a fact that there were plenty of small farms. And yet they had not come upon a single other person. Mayhap that was for the best. People meant soldiers and farmers willing to do anything for a bit of extra gold, including chasing down young women. But as things presently stood, soon enough it wouldn't matter. 

Sansa was worried too, though she pretended otherwise. She had never been good at it, and when he showed her the empty snare, her face fell noticeably. Her feet were hurting too, as well as her hands, but she trailed along behind him without complaint. She did talk an awful lot though. 

«How many days 'till Stonedance?»

She was panting slightly. Her body had grown stronger during the past days, but she was still woefully out of shape. 

«Couldn't say. A sennight, mabe two.»

«Have you ever been there before?»

«Once, with King Robert. Stopped by during a hunt.»

Sansa murmured something he couldn't hear. Neither did he ask her. Sandor preferred to walk in silence, something the Little Bird seemed incapable of. He knew she tried, bless her, but something in her made it impossible for her to remain quiet for long. It was comforting, despite the annoyance, to know how far she'd come from her days in captivity. It had not been that long ago, after all. 

«So you know Lord Massey?»

«No.»

«But if you were there with Robert-»

«Our late King wasn't in the habit of introducing his son's sworn shield to Lords. Besides, we didn't stay for long. It's a grim place. Why do you want to know.»

She shrugged.

«I was only curious.»

«Aye, I've noticed.»

She fell silent, trailing behind him on the path. It was less muddy in this part of the forest, the ground they trod made of small, smooth rocks. With the sun shining, their bodies in constant motion, their clothes soon dried. 

Sansa started singing. She was smart enough to keep it quiet, but it was still a beautiful sound. He didn't recognize the tune. Some song from the north, most like. Still, it was sweet and lulling, driving away thoughts of cold and hunger. 

When she stopped, it was abruptly, and felt instantly wrong. Turning around, he found her frozen on the path, hand outstretched and pointing. By the look of her, one would think it was a ghast she'd spotted. Or maybe a soldier. But following the line of her finger, he saw it was only an old fox. 

It was sniffing around a rock, noise buried in the ground. The fur was almost the same shade as Sansa's hair, made golden by the sunlight. It pawed at the earth, scratching and sniffing, too preoccupied with it's own prey to notice them. 

Drawing his dagger free if it's sheath, he placed the blade in his palm. Sansa was breathing heavily behind him, but was wise enough not to move. Drawing his arm back, he sent the dagger flying, and watched as the blade buried into the creatures neck. It whined and writhed, but didn't run. Blood sprouted from it's wound, staining the fur and the ground below. Turning to Sansa, he took her by the hand and led her over to the dying fox. 

She didn't need to be told what to do. Kneeling down next to the dying animal, she placed her wounded hands upon the hilt and looked up at him with questioning eyes. He nodded, and Sansa pulled the dagger out, then across it's throat in one swift movement. The fox's legs twitched, once, twice, and then it was dead. 

Standing up, Sansa handed him back the dagger. She looked sad. Sad, when she ought to be proud. 

«You did well.»

It was enough to coax forth a small smile. 

«It's beautiful. It was a shame to kill it.»

«Aye. But we're hungry, and it's food.»

When she nodded, he knew she understood. 

He carried the animal a little ways away. She might have killed it, but she didn't need to see what was about to happen. Not now, hopefully not ever. But as he guided the blade underneath it's skin, he heard her rustling around behind him. 

«Show me,» she said, covering his hand with her own. 

He guided her through the skinning and the gutting, and not once did she look away. She washed her hands in a small brook, but didn't look upset at the sight of blood on her skirts. As they resumed walking, she started to sing again. And later, as they ate, Sansa sat on a blanket of fox-fur.


	8. Chapter 8

Sansa was resting. Tucked in her cloak, a blanket and her new pelt, she was watching Sandor as he fished. One hand grasping a sharpened pole, the other held out for balance, he stood still, gaze directed at the water that flowed between his legs. It was clear and cold, good for visibility but far too chilly for Sansa. His trousers were tucked up around his thighs, his socks and boots resting beside her. Sandor was good at this. She could tell by the way he moved, by the confident set of his features. Also, he had told her. 

They had come across the river a short while ago. It was nothing like the Blackwater Rush, stretching only a few meters from one bank to the other. While refilling the wineskin they used for carrying water, Sandor had spotted a fish. It was a trout, he'd said. And apparently, there was nothing like fresh trout. 

"I used to catch them using nothing but my hands,» he'd said. «They were slow and stupid. In the spring and fall there were so many, there were no need for nets or poles."

He looked quite happy as he reminisced, all the while whittling away at a long stick. 

"Have they become faster, or is it you who have grown slow," she asked, eying the instrument. 

Sandor laughed, understanding the comment to be a jape. His eyes had crinkled in the corners in a way that made him appear younger. They continued to do so now, as he peered into the water, seeking out trout, looking both young and happy. Somehow, it seemed more like a dream than reality. 

He might have grown slower over the years, but Sandor was still fast. Suddenly there was a movement, a splash. When he emerged from the stream, a fat fish was wriggling between his hands. Wading back to the bank, Sandor's legs cut through water as easy as if it was air. He looked extremely pleased, jogging up the slope where grass met water with easy movements. 

"Get your dagger," he said as he crouched down next to her. 

He had gifted her a spare he'd kept tucked away in his boot with the promise that he would soon teach her how to wield it. It had already seen plenty of use, cutting kindling and dressing hares, but somehow they'd yet to find the time for him to show her more defensive moves. 

She kept the dagger by her waist, fastened by a strip of cloth cut from the hem of her dress. Tying it there for the first time had made her feel proper in a strange sort of way. Not like a proper lady, but something else. A proper woods-man perhaps, a proper hunter. It was as if there was one way to conduct oneself in society, another in the woods. And as Sandor had told her repeatedly, one simply did not enter the wilderness without a blade of one sort or another. Whatever the feeling amounted to, the sensation of the sheath bumping against her hip felt right. 

After some fumbling beneath the layers of cloak and blanket, she found the hilt, drawing it free. Sandor still kept a firm grip on their prey while guiding her other hand, placing it on the creatures back. 

"Keep a form grip. It's strong."

It was indeed, but the texture was not as bad as she'd imagined, it's scales more sharp than slimy. He let go, sitting back, apparently trusting her to do it right. 

"Cut it's throat. Swiftly now. There's no need for it to suffer longer than necessary."

He continued giving instructions, while she complied. It was a little unsavoury, but the fish was smaller than the fox, and it's intestines slid out easily. Not knowing what to do with them, she stared at the lumps of guts lying in her palm until Sandor plucked them out of her hand and flung them into the water. She threw the head in herself. 

Sandor declared the riverbank a good place to make camp, and that they had walked far enough for one day. The sun was still high in the sky, evening still a few hours away. But though her body was tired as always, the prospect of halting before necessary did not appeal to her. 

"Are you certain? We could get further still."

She didn't need to tell him why she was worried. He might not encourage conversation, but he seemed to understand her well enough. 

"Don't fret, Little Bird. The King's men have fast horses and all the supplies they need. We could never outrun them. But they'll have a hard time finding us. And you need rest."

She agreed, sinking back into her nest of blankets as Sandor set out in search of wood, still with a certain bounce in his step. His mood had become progressively lighter the farther they got from the city. There were still things to worry about, and their days were long and hard. But it would seem as if his troubles did not bother him as much as they had. She could see him smiling more often. And whenever he found something he thought interesting, like a rare tree or a fallen birds-nest, he would show it to her with an enthusiasm that seemed almost childlike. He would talk more too. Not so much about himself, but Sansa no longer felt uncomfortable asking. His good mood was affecting her in turn. She was still tired, still worried about Joffrey and his men, but she no longer dwelled so much on the possibility of being caught. It no longer seemed as likely, as if no one would be able to find them here, in between the trees. This was a different life, and the idea that someone from their old one should somehow be able to intrude upon it felt impossible, despite the fact that she knew it was not. 

They had taken to list all the things they would buy if they could. Where before Sansa would have listed silks and jewels, she now found that she craved nothing as much as shoes and a warmer dress. She wanted thick socks and a large pelt to sleep underneath at night. Meanwhile, Sandor wanted a horse. He often talked about his old one, a big black beast called Stranger. He'd said it was the only creature besides her that he cared about. According to him, this trip would have gone by in a moment, if only he'd brought Stranger along. 

Sandor returned a while later with an armful of twigs and branches. He set to building the fire, every movement precise and methodical. She saw now what she had not noticed before, how the smaller twigs went on the bottom, how the fire needed to be coaxed out before the bigger logs could catch fire. He had taught her how to do this, but it was not until that moment that Sansa came to wonder who had taught him. He knew so many things. He knew them well. His childhood had not been a happy one, and yet someone must have taught him all those things that for most people were necessary for survival. 

As the fire took hold, Sandor sat down beside her. He draped an arm around her shoulders, burying his fingers in the red tresses of the fox-fur pelt. She had taken to wearing it around her neck, appreciating it for how the colours blended with her own hair, but most of all for the warmth it gave. Even during their short journey, the weather had grown noticeably colder, a chill wind blowing in from the north. But at this very moment, with the fox fur around her neck and the hare pelts Sandor made her bind around her calves, the sun still high in the sky, it was not so bad. 

"You hungry, Little Bird?"

"Only a little."

Sandor grinned. 

"You lie."

She smiled back. Understating ones pains was apparently the one sort of falsehood he could tolerate. 

"I'm fine, Sandor. I'm sure you must be more hungry than I."

His fingers drifted from the fur to her hair, playing with it, letting the strands glide between his fingers. 

"It'll be a while before the coals are hot enough. Might be you'll want to do something in the meanwhile?"

She had grown to crave their lovemaking with an ardour that was embarrassing. Sansa tried to not let her needs show too plainly, but she never turned him down without good reason. Sometimes the nights were just too cold, her body too worn out. And now... she could not quite puzzle out what bothered her, but for some reason it did not tempt. Or rather, though her body was willing, her mind felt too muddled. She shot him swift look, shaking her head. 

"Naughty little bird," Sandor mock chastised. "Get your mind out of the gutter, that wasn't what I had in mind at all."

"Oh?"

"You've been pestering me about learning to use that dagger for days."

Meeting his gaze again, she found his expression to be warm and playful. 

"How about it? Feel in the mood to be taught some more?"

Nodding with an eagerness that even surprised herself, she got to her feet. Sandor took her by the hand, guiding her away from the trees, onto the flat expanse by the bank. The grass stood tall, and even though the blades were yellow and dying, they remained tough. Dotted between them there were twigs and rocks. But when she asked if they should not move to smoother ground, Sandor merely laughed and instructed her that this was the best place for learning.

"Your opponent might attack at any place. It's better you're prepared for it. This won't be like the way your master at arms trained your brothers, in a yard, with rules and dry ground. Now, get your weapon out, girl."

"But isn't that how you were taught? You grew up in a keep. Did you not also learn to fight in a yard?"

Sansa knew she sounded petulant, but his comment about her brothers, though not mean-spirited, still riled her. Sandor did not appear to take offence, however.

"Aye. I learned in a yard. Not at Clegane Keep though. I left when I was old enough. But I've had to fight in corridors and taverns. Sometimes even in the forest. And I can tell you, it would have been nice if my buggering instructor had taught me that battles are seldom fought it the training-yard."

She nodded, eager to show that she understood. She still thought it might have been a good idea to start out someplace easier, but in this she was sure that Sandor knew best. But there was something else he'd said that caught her notice. 

"When did you leave for Casterly Rock?"

"At ten," he said, shrugging, as this was commonplace. Maybe it was, but Sandor's upbringing had been far from normal. He had not told her much concerning his childhood, but she had gathered enough to understand that it had not been a happy one, and that the reason for this was Gregor. 

Sandor began the instruction by telling her that the way in which she held the dagger was completely wrong. He then proceeded to tell her how to hold it and why. She listened and nodded and did as he bid her, all the while asking him about his time amongst the Lannisters. He in turn told her of how he had arrived at the gates as a gangly ten year old, of his time in the yard and evenings spent in Lannisport, all the while instructing her to lift her arm like that, or twist away like this. Soon enough she was panting, face and palms moist and sticky with perspiration. 

"Now, since you're so small, the best thing would be if your attacker didn't know you were armed at all."

She nodded, too winded to ask any more questions. 

"The best thing would be if you hid the dagger away, someplace where it's not visible. And when you reach for it, remember not to look."

"Why not?"

Sandor, who had not even broken a sweat, grinned, looking pleased in his role as teacher.

"Because if you look, then your attacker will look too. Best thing would be to distract him in some way. If you practice pulling the blade out, you won't need to look anyway."

He then asked her to practice drawing the dagger. He made her do it again and again, until her arms hurt and her chest were blowing like a bellows. 

He then asked her to practice on him. Holding her to him, asking her to try to get free, he laughed when she failed and praised her when she succeeded. She suspected that he made it easy for her, that she would never actually be able to break free of arms as strong as his. It still gave her a feeling of pride and power, whenever she twisted his arm like so, or pretended to stab him like that, and he would crumple before her. When he swiped away the sweat from her forehead and declared them done for the day Sansa was smiling along with him, and knew herself to be happy. 

***

Breaching through a thicket of brambles, they found themselves on the top of a hill. It was not very large, not like the mountains up north, but she could still see the narrow valley stretching out before them and the forest that continued beyond it. Far away and past the trees, she could even spot the place where sea met sky. It seemed both distant and close all at once. 

The Kingswood was a beautiful place, it's trees old and tall, covered in colours of red and yellow. They grew densely on the valley-floor, but from between them she could spot the wispy tendrils of smoke rising towards the sky. It had been an easy thing to imagine that there were no other people in existence, tucked away and isolated as they had been. The flimsy column of smoke heralded people. Whether this was good or bad they had yet to find out. 

"Could be soldiers."

Sandor had seen it too, and stopping beside her he stared at the smoke, a hostile look on his face. Sansa did not know how to respond. The notion of running into the King's men terrified her. But her feet were still aching. As was her stomach. Sandor seemed to believe that they would never reach Stonedance if they did not first get some proper supplies. And yet, if they ran into soldiers, they would never escape anyway. At a loss for what to do, she looked to Sandor. 

"Could be a farm too," he conceded. "Or a hunting-party mayhap. Seems more likely than soldiers wandering so far from the road."

Despite admitting to this possibility, she knew he would rather not go near the place at all. He continued to stared fixedly at the spot from which the smoke emanated, seemingly just as undetermined as she. 

Sandor had a habit of fingering the pommel of his sword whenever he was nervous. At first she thought this simply meant that he was pensive, believing that a man such as he was not plagued by nerves. And perhaps nervousness was not the most accurate way to describe the state he was in. But there was an air of apprehension about him. Sansa realized that this did not stem from cowardice or a frail nerves, but rather that he recognized the danger, and that he took it seriously. 

His fingers scratching at the pommel, Sansa was seized with a desire to still his hand. Just as he comforted her with kisses and caresses, she wanted to comfort him in turn. It was a growing desire; to tend to him, take care of him, as if his problems were her own, and if only she could solve them, she would be stuck with one less. But Sansa kept her hands at her sides, content with observing him. He wouldn't appreciate the gesture. Or at least, he would never show it. 

Reaching a decision at last, he turned to her, face as stern as ever. 

"They might have things that we need, but there's no need to place us both in danger. I'll go down there, meanwhile you'll hide away someplace. Here, maybe, where you can see them coming."

Sansa could tell he was uneasy with his decision. As was she, for as much as the prospect of encountering King's men frightened her, so did the idea of being left by herself.

"No. I will not stay here alone."

Sandor did not appear as if he had expected her resistance, and looked visibly taken aback.

"Yes, you will. Even if they don't recognize us, we'll look all the more suspicious if we're two."

"Maybe..."

Sandor was right, she knew, but that did not lessen her fear. Mind reeling, she tried to think of an alternative, one that would keep him by her side and the soldiers far away. 

"Maybe if we snuck up on them. We could see if they were soldiers. And if they are not, we will both meet them."

Sandor opened his mouth, presumably to protest. Sansa raised a hand to quiet him.

"Of the two of us, you look by far the most suspicious. And if they recognize you and tell of it, the King will assume that I'm with you regardless. The safest place for me is at your side."

After a while, Sandor nodded his agreement, and they set off down the hillside. 

***

Sandor was berating her. He didn't say anything, but the looks he shot her way were unmistakable. As they closed in on the fire, Sandor had told her they needed to stay quiet. She had not spoken a word since, but she must have been doing something wrong judging by the way he looked at her. Already uneasy with the situation, his looks made her increasingly worried.

Catching her eye once more, he looked pointedly at her feet. Following his gaze, she saw nothing wrong. Apart from her make-shift shoes, there was nothing out of the ordinary. Looking back at him, she shrugged, only distantly noting how unladylike the gesture were. 

Sandor approached, bending down, lips at her ear.

"You sound like a buggering bear with all the noise your making. Try to walk quiet."

He proceeded through the trees, not waiting for her to reply. And true enough, Sandor glided between trunks and over sticks and grass and bushes, nary making a sound. Taking a tentative step of her own, Sansa became aware of the rustling of leaves and twigs. As she resumed walking, she kept her gaze downturned, looking at her feet and the ground underneath. Careful to avoid anything that might break or rustle, she proceeded slowly through the woods, hoping that Sandor had not progressed too far ahead. 

She didn't notice when he stopped, but suddenly his legs came into view. Halting, she looked up to find Sandor right in front of her, his shoulders set and tense. Peering out from behind him, she saw nothing more than trees and bushes. But Sandor must have spotted something she did not. Judging by the way his fingers gripped his sword-hilt, she could only guess he did not like what he saw. 

It was as if temperature had dropped, her body suddenly cold. Distantly she noted how her hands were shaking, her feet rooted to the spot. It was soldiers, she felt sure of it. But surely they hadn't been seen. Maybe they could walk back, or past them. Perhaps they could even hide?

But then Sandor turned, nudging his head in the direction he'd been looking. 

"Seems like hunters," he said, no longer bothering to keep quiet. "There's two of them. One young, one old."

With that, breath returned, filling her lungs and dispelling the cold. She was still shaking, but only slightly. Placing her hand on the hilt of her dagger, as she'd seen Sandor do so many times, she felt herself be comforted by it's presence.

"Alright. Let us go then," she said, nudging his back, acting braver than she felt. 

The men sat in a small clearing, the fire burning brightly between them. One was holding a stick, poking at a dead animal – a hare, Sansa guessed – suspended over the flames. The other, a boy younger than herself, was lying in the grass, whistling on some melody she didn't recognize. At the edge of the clearing, there was a horse. It was bound to a tree, gnawing at the bark. The three of them made an idyllic scene, similar to something she might have seen rendered in a storybook once. Then Sandor entered the clearing, and the scene changed. 

Both men bolted to their feet, the boy no longer whistling, the old man still clutching his stick. He held it out in front of him as though it was a sword. The horse whinnied, pawing at the ground and throwing it's head back, while the older man stared intently at Sandor. However, the boy seemed distracted, looking about on the ground. There was a bow there, discarded beside the fire. 

"It's no use, boy," Sandor called to him. "You'll be dead before you've knocked an arrow."

As Sandor stepped further into the clearing, Sansa followed behind. She kept close to his back, though there was really no point. It was not as if these people could do her any harm. Not with Sandor there to protect her. 

"Be easy. We're not looking for trouble. We only seek to share your food and fire."

He lifted his arms as if to demonstrate his lack of malicious intent. The men did not appear comforted until they saw Sansa, stepping out from behind Sandor. 

"We can pay," Sandor added

He walked over and sat down without waiting for an invitation. Sansa followed after, though somewhat more timidly. The men eyed them both, but seemed to decide that despite Sandor's fearsome appearance, they made no threat. After a moment, they sat down as well. The old man resumed his poking, while the other took up his tune. 

"Who are you folks then?" the old man asked. 

Worried that Sandor might offend the man, Sansa hurried to reply before he could. 

"I'm Jeyne, and this is my husband, Robert."

She didn't like to talk to strangers any more than she enjoyed lying. But the men had no reason not the believe her, and nodded. She saw the old man eying her torn dress and dirty footwear. She hadn't thought on it before, but surely they must look like the poorest of people. 

"I'm Len. This is Daniel, my son."

Sansa smiled, trying to put them more at ease. The old man - Len - didn't notice, but his son smiled back. 

"What a sweet horse. Is it yours?" she asked.

It looked more like a beast, in truth. Huge and black, with shaggy fur and a long and tangled mane. The boy shook his head, looking suddenly serious again. 

"He belongs to the farm. We bought him to help with the harvest. We were lucky to get him. Horses are becoming hard to find, especially one strong enough to do farm-work."

It was the first the boy had spoken. His voice still unbroken, it was soft and lovely. It drew Sandor's attention, making the boy blush and squirm. 

"And those boots, are they yours, boy?"

Confused, he looked down at them, a hand fidgeting with the laces. Sansa hadn't noticed until Sandor called attention to them. Following the boy's gaze, she looked at them. They were rather ugly, but the leather seemed tough, and the size small. They would probably fit her, but surely Sandor didn't mean to take them?

"Aye," the boy squeaked. "They're mine, and new as well. Father bought them off a tinker just outside of Arna."

Sansa had no idea where Arna was, but tried to not let her confusion show as she nodded along. 

"So, where are you headed?" the old man asked, bringing their attention back to him. "It's a bit late in the season for travel. Winter will be here soon."

Having no idea how to respond, she left Sandor to answer the question. 

"We're going to King's Landing."

He didn't say anything else, and the old man didn't pry any further. It didn't seem as if he was really interested anyway. 

Sandor had begun to relax. Leaning back on his elbows, he stretched his legs out, flexing his large feet. 

"Seems like that hare is done. How about it, old man? Feel like sharing?"

Len nodded, and soon enough they were all gnawing on a piece of flesh. It was slightly charred, but tasted well enough. Neither of them had eaten since they caught the trout, and the sensation of flesh between her tongue and teeth, the way it slid down her throat, filling her belly, felt indescribably good. She tried to savour it, tasting every mouthful, for who knew when they would get their next meal.

After they had eaten, the atmosphere became noticeably less tense. The boy had lain down once more, chewing on a straw. Len picked up his stick, and were poking the flames absentmindedly. Sandor unrolled their blankets, sitting down on them, motioning for Sansa to sit next to him. It would seem like he had decided they would spend the night here, for which she was thankful. It was late, and the food had made her sleepy. Besides, the men seemed harmless. Placing her head in his lap, she closed her eyes, breathing in the scent of and smoke and grass. 

***

She woke to the sound of voices, finding the rest of the party already awake. Breaking their fast on some of Len and Daniel's dry meat, they ate in silence. The horse was grazing behind them, probably the only one of them who got to eat his fill. 

Devouring his piece in one bite, Sandor opened the satchel and rummaged about. When his hand withdrew, it was holding a bronze coin. The others stopped their chewing for a moment, staring at the coin, before looking away, pretending not to have noticed. 

"I'll give you a copper for the food. Ten, if you give us the lad's boots," Sandor said, tossing the coin to the old man. 

He caught it in the air, looking at it as if it was made of gold. Taking another bite, he chewed slowly, turning the coin over in his palm. 

"Fifteen coppers."

Sandor laughed, shaking his head. It was a bit unreasonable, Sansa thought, to haggle with such poor people. They had plenty of money, what did it matter if they saved a copper or two? 

"I'll give you twelve," he said. 

Len nodded his consent.

"Alright then, twelve."

Money changed hands, and the next moment Sansa discarded the dirty leather scraps, her feet ensconced by the boy's boots. They were hard and ugly, but fit well. She almost looked forward to walking now, if only to feel the difference. Smiling, she squeezed Sandor's hand in thanks. He didn't look back however, but kept his eyes trained on Len.

Daniel did not look too put out by the loss of his shoes. It would seem as if twelve coppers was a fair price for a pair of used boots. As he saddled the horse, he moved about with ease, presumably used to being barefoot. Sansa could only hope he had an extra pair at home though. Winter would be hard without shoes. 

As Daniel saddled the horse, Len and Sandor packed up. When Sandor had finished, he handed the satchel over to her, looking at her intently as if trying to communicate something, but not wanting to say the words. As he turned away from her, his hand did not finger the pommel, but rested firmly on the hilt of his sword. 

"Your horse, we're taking that as well."

He said it in such a nonchalant manner, it almost appeared as if he thought this was a completely reasonable request. Both Len and Daniel froze, staring at him. Daniel seemed to want to make for the bow again, but Len, having spotted Sandor's hand on his sword, shook his head. 

"Forget it boy," he said. He didn't look angry though. Nor sad. He kept shaking his head, a curiously blank expression on his face. Sansa, on the other hand, felt disappointed. It was not as if they knew these people, but why, when they had so much money, and the others so little, could they not buy the horse from them, rather than take it? She would have asked Sandor, but it didn't seem like the time. Instead, she snuck her hand into the satchel, searching out a couple of gold coins. Waiting until Sandor was occupied with untethering the horse, she quickly pressed it into the boy's palm. 

As they rode away, Sansa cradled snugly against Sandor's chest, she looked back. Both men were standing in the same places, a forlorn look on their faces as they stared after the horse. The golden coin still lay in the boy's palm, seemingly forgotten. 

***

They rode throughout the day. As the horse picked it's way between rocks and thickets, Sansa talked while Sandor listened. She told him stories of her childhood, of Lady, and how everyone said that the direwolf was so sweet-tempered because of her owner. She told of the people in Winter Town, and how she had used to accompany her mother when visiting the poor. She told of how she had once helped Maester Luwin with the ravens. She told him of every kind thing she had ever done, yet she still couldn't forget the look on the boy's face as he stared after his horse.


	9. Chapter 9

People stole things every day. Someone had something taken from him and took something else in return. It wasn't something Sandor did unless needed, but he'd never understood why it was placed so high in the hierarchy of sins either. It seemed to him that the most powerful people were those who stole the most. Surely it was better to steal to survive, than to tax poor farmers just because you could. Still, it plagued him more than he had thought it would. No doubt the result of the Little Birds influence. He would have to take care not to go soft. 

It was good to be in a saddle again. The horse was a good one. It wasn't made for speed, nor trained for combat. But it was a strong and lively creature, not shy about making it's opinions known. Riding throughout the day, Sandor familiarized himself with the horse, how it balked when having to wade through water and the sure-footed way it navigated the rocks and bushes covering the forest-floor. 

Sansa was talking all the while. He felt sure she'd never talked so much in her life, at least not in his presence. At first he thought she simply wanted him to know about her life. After a while, however, it seemed she talked more for her own benefit than his. There became something manic about the way she spoke as she went on and on about her wolf, or one of the many peasants she seemed to have befriended. It struck him as a little odd; both her endless talking, as well as her seemingly close relationship with the small-folk. But if the last few weeks had proved anything, it was that he didn't know everything about Sansa. She was indeed far stranger and more complex than he'd ever realized. 

Sandor had felt sure she would be angry at him for taking the horse. He'd been prepared to fight her on it, had even made ready some arguments to persuade her of the necessity. He would have bought it if he could. But gold would not help the farmers with the harvest, and it would have been unwise to let on just how much coin they carried in any case. Little seemed more suspicious than seemingly poor travelers toting about vast amounts of gold dragons. Besides, the money would come in handy later, and he'd rather not waste any. Sansa hadn't said anything thought. Not about that. She kept talking about her home and her past, making Sandor suspect that something was wrong, but leaving him no wiser as to what that was. 

They made significant progress throughout the day. From this new vantage-point, Sandor felt better able to appreciate their surroundings. The ground was still uneven, the forest still dense, it's twigs and branches clutching and ripping at their clothes. But the horses legs were long, it's hooves hard. They were striding across the ground at twice the pace they'd kept on foot, despite going no faster than a gait. 

There was no telling exactly where we were, but Sandor estimated perhaps three more days until they reached Stonedance. Three days was still plenty of time for something to go wrong. But they were better off now then they had been yesterday, and there was no point in dwelling on all that might happen. 

A small brook wound it's way between the stones. Following it, they soon reached a spot were the trees parted enough to make a small clearing. Surrounded by spruce, the dense branches almost looked like walls. It was quite dark inside, but the ground was thickly covered in brown needles, soft and springy under his heels as he jumped down off the horse. 

Lifting Sansa down alongside him, she crumpled to the ground at once. She was whimpering, clutching at her thighs. He hadn't thought of it until now, but of course the little bird wasn't used to riding. Well, she would be soon enough. Just as her arms and legs had grown stronger as she got accustomed to walking, so she would now learn to ride. He was no longer concerned that she wouldn't be able to manage. Sansa was tough, despite her dainty appearance. 

Rolling out the blankets, he placed her on them, before ridding the horse of it's saddle and bridle. It would seem that Sansa would be of little use this evening, so he headed out to set the traps on his own. As he returned with an armful of firewood, he found Sansa sitting cross-legged on the blanket, one hand massaging a thigh, the other clutching her dagger. 

When the fire was lit, the small pot filled with water and some twigs of spruce to make tea, Sandor took over the massage, while Sansa continued to fiddled with the dagger. After a while her fingers sought out her new shoes, a happy expression on her face. 

“Like them, do you?” he asked, although he already knew the answer. 

He had decided to take them the moment he saw the boy, and was only glad that they allowed him to buy them. Otherwise he would have stolen those as well. They were of a tough leather - cow hide perhaps – and were fastened with leather cords up the front, so even thought they looked a bit too big, they wouldn't slide off. 

Sansa smiled and nodded. 

“They are very nice. Thank you.”

He doubted very much that she found them nice. But after almost two weeks of walking on uneven and wet ground, he knew that she appreciated them. 

The water began to boil, filling the air with the sweet-smelling aroma of boiling spruce. 

“The greens make for good tea if you have nothing else to eat. It doesn't taste much, but it nourishes a bit, and keeps you warm,” he told her, as he lifted the pot away from the flames. 

They didn't have anything to drink from though, so he placed the pot on the ground, waiting for it to cool. In the meanwhile Sansa had begun to unfasten the laces around her boots. 

“I thought to keep the dagger here,” she explained.

Sandor gave an approving grunt. The Little Bird was learning. 

“Make sure to tie the cord loosely. You need to be able to get it out quick. You should practice some.”

And so, as they waited for the tea to cool, Sansa drew the dagger again and again. She looked pleased, happy either with her progress or the shoes. But as he handed her the pot after taking a drink, her face fell noticeably. Wrapping her hands around the kettle, she took a small, dainty sip before handing it back. Her posture was rigid, her hands grasped tight around each other. 

“What's the matter, girl?”

She shot him a look from the corner of her eye. She looked hesitant, as if she was gauging his reaction. Opening and closing her mouth numerous times, she said at last “I don't know that I can explain it.”

“Why don't you try?”

He took another sip, coughing a little at the bitter taste, while waiting for her to find the words, or perhaps the courage. A while later, the weak tea now gone, she finally seemed ready to speak. 

“It's confusing...” she began. “I don't quite know how to act anymore.”

“How do you mean?”

Taking yet another moment, she sighed and tried again.

“A few days ago, when I was redressing my feet, I found that the soles there have begun to harden.”

Sandor laughed. His Little Bird was concerned about her appearance. Well, that was nothing new. 

“Aye, I expect they would. Don't worry about that thought. They'll soften again as soon as we have you back in your silk slippers.”

This didn't seem to appease her however. Hands still knotted about each other, she seemed just as tense.

“No... that's not what I mean. I was glad, you see. Relieved perhaps. And just now, as you went off to gather wood and set the trap... It felt wrong. That I couldn't help, I mean.”

Looking at him at last, she placed a hand above his, squeezing it. She seemed so earnest, almost desperate.

“I suppose this is all for the good. That I am able to help. That I want to. But only a few weeks ago, it would have never even occurred to me. I didn't know how to build a fire, or skin a hare, or anything about how to survive in the wild.”

“Aye, I know. But you asked. You wanted to know.”

Annoyed, Sandor drew his hand back. He had not been particularly eager to teach her in the first place. She was a lady. Her fingers were made for caresses, for sewing and weaving. They were pale and soft, and he hadn't wanted to see them grow callused. But she had asked, and despite making him feel as though he was failing her, he did as she bid. 

“I know, I know. And I am so thankful to you for helping me. But all that time in King's Landing, in that room, not being able to do anything, not seeing anyone... and now, here, with all these new things that I've learned, I am no longer sure what is the right way to act.”

Her voice was wavering, her eyes glazing over. Drawing a deep breath, the another, she seemed to be able to quell the tears before they fell. Sandor felt uncomfortable. He didn't know what to do, always feeling like a clumsy fool when trying to comfort her. Mollified, he reached over, picking up her hand and enfolding it in his own. Sansa drew another deep breath and went on. 

“I used to be a lady. I used to know what to do, and how I should act. But little of that really applies anymore. So much have changed, and in such short a time. It's as if something inside me has been warped, changed, and I no longer know what to do... Or rather, how I should be.”

Emphasizing the last word, she looked directly into his eyes. Her face was set, the expression intent, willing him to understand what she meant. In all honesty, Sandor couldn't say he did. 

“You are a lady, Sansa. Building fires and sleeping rough won't change that.”

She turned away, obviously displeased with his answer. Grasping her chin, he turned her face back towards him. 

“No, listen to me. It won't matter whether you live in a keep or in a cottage, or even if you sleep right on the ground. You are highborn, you're a Stark. That won't ever change.”

Seeming truly riled now, she shot to her feet. Startling the horse with her abrupt movement, it whinnied, pawing at the forest-floor in agitation. 

“No, Sandor. You don't understand. If I behaved as a lady would, out here, I would surely die. And wherever we are heading, I don't suppose it will be for a life in a castle, with servants and handmaidens. And so I can't act as a lady, and I don't really want to either. And without that, I don't have anything to guide me.”

Pacing back and forth, hair a wild tangle, and cheeks aflame in anger, she looked fetching. This was probably not the time to say so though, upset as she was. Sandor tried to understand why, he really did, but her distress made no sense to him. Seeing his apparent confusion, she seemed to calm a bit. Sinking to down to her knees before him, she fixed him with a pleading look. 

“This morning, when we stole that horse, I let you.”

“You couldn't very well have stopped me, Little Bird.”

Sandor smiled at the notion.

“No, I couldn't. But I know that as much as they need that horse, so do we. I know that in order for us to survive, I will have to do things I've been taught is wrong. I suppose what I mean is that I don't know what is wrong anymore. In some ways it feels wrong when I get my hands dirty. At the same time, just lying about, letting you do the work feels wrong also. I didn't want to take that horse, but I don't want us to get caught either. Do you see now?”

The desperate urgency had seeped out of her. She just seemed sad now. Resigned. Not knowing what else to do, Sandor gathered her in his arms and drew her into his lap. Breathing deeply, she rested her head against his chest, one palm cool against his neck. 

“Aye,” he muttered. “I think I do.”

And he did understand. He knew what it was to no longer now what was right and what to do. Once, when he'd been a little boy, his mother had used to read for him every evening. He could still recall the fell of her rough spun skirts against his chubby fingers as he nestled in her lap. She would read him stories, while he toyed with her hair. It was usually those knightly stories Sansa had loved so. As he heard them, he would wonder, and ask his mother why this hero or that chose self-sacrifice so readily. And his mother, though not very bright, would tell him to always take care that one did the right thing. 

What to consider right had undergone slight variations during his upbringing. But it wasn't until his tenure as Joffrey's sworn shield that he'd abandoned the notion all together. For such a long time, he'd been convinced that even though one action might bring about more happiness than another, in the grand scheme of things, it didn't matter. This was the creed by which he lived, and he believed it wholeheartedly. He knew the things he did were wrong, just as surely as he knew that disobeying was considered sin, and that no matter which choice he made, it wouldn't make much difference. 

It didn't matter until Sansa arrived at court. He had not been explicitly aware of it at first, but as moon after moon passed, he realized at last that the unhappiness he was feeling was because he understood what suffering his action caused. Even so, when caught between the demands of his own conscience, and the orders of his King, deciding what to do had not been an easy thing. 

He had never expected Sansa to have to face such quandaries though. She was crying freely now. Tears were pearling in her eyelashes, snot around her nose. It didn't appear as if she cared. Her hands where knotted together in her lap, a lone ant crawling across one white knuckle. This disregard for her own appearance was in itself a demonstration of what she meant. 

“Here girl,” he said, drawing his handkerchief from a pocket. 

It was damp and a little dirty, but she took it nonetheless, dabbing daintily at her eyes and nose. The ant fell to her dress, swallowed in folds of fabric. Sandor, wanting to comfort her, searched for something to say. 

“I do know what you mean, Little Bird. I understand. But you don't need a septa to tell you right from wrong. You've got a good head on you, and a tender heart. You know what's the right thing to do. As for how you should act, I think you should do as you please. But knowing how to survive, and not moan and complain about every little thing, that's a good thing, as far as I'm concerned.”

His speech was muddled, his voice embarrassingly hoarse. It was the sort of intensely frank conversation that made him very uncomfortable. But Sansa seemed to understand what he meant, and looked as if she felt slightly better for it. 

“Besides,” he added, “there's plenty of time to worry about manners and morals later. I suggest you put those thoughts away for now, if you want to survive the journey.”

***

By midmorning the next day, they had passed through the patch of spruce and entered a narrow glen. The rock faces on either side looked as if torn asunder, and in between there was nothing but yellow grass. There grew trees on the top of the rocks on either side, creating a tall canyon. A thrush sat on a low branch, calling out. It's belly was speckled white and grey, it's song high pitched, insisting. There were no one to respond. All the others had already flown south. 

It was a blessedly warm day. One of the last in the season. The sun was out, and the wind carried with it a light breeze from the south. They must be nearing the coast, for there was a certain salty tang to the air. It was as if the horse could sense it's destination as well. Perhaps it knew these parts. At any rate, it trotted along eagerly, ears pricked forward. 

Sansa was humming. It was a sweet tune, and sad. She seemed a bit distant, still troubled by her thoughts. But there were more distractions in this part of the forest, providing sights to keep her occupied. Head swiveling back and forth, she too caught sight of the lone thrush.

“I thought it would have flown south by now.”

“It should, if it has any sense. And so should we.”

Shifting in the saddle, she turned to look at him. She was so close he could see the steady beat of her pulse beneath her ear, and the dusting of fine hair at the nape of her neck. 

“Where will we go?” she asked, looking curious and complacent all at once.

“Braavos, I thought. Though we'll take the first ship that sails. Unless it's going to King's Landing.”

“Braavos...”

She said it slowly, tasting the word. 

“Braavos is quite far north. It will be winter there as well.”

“Aye, it will.”

Truth be told, he hadn't really given much thought as to which place was best. He'd simply settled on Braavos when seeing the ship, and that was that.

“We might go someplace further south. Lys, maybe. All the way to Asshai, if you wish.”

“I don't mind staying north.”

She said it with a smile, before turning back in the saddle. Her plump bottom was nudged snugly against him, swaying as she followed the animals movements. 

“I like snow,” she went on. “It would be nice to see it again. It has been so long. Not since I left Winterfell.”

“You might have grown heartily sick of it by winters end. It could last for years, you know. But Braavos is a good place. It's close to Westeros, and I'm guessing there's more people who speak the common tongue there than in Asshai. Don't know about you, Little Bird, but my Valyrian is not so good.”

“I don't really know. I think I've forgotten most of it,” she said, reminding him of her superior education. 

“What will we do there? In Braavos?”

“Don't know. What people do everywhere, I suppose. Work, eat, live.”

“You know what I mean,” she said, nudging him softly with an elbow.

“I do, Little Bird. And I meant what I said. I don't know. I'll find work, I suppose. We'll rent rooms someplace. Don't fret though, we'll sort everything out when the time comes. And the gold will last us a while.”

Sandor was neither thrifty nor a wasteful. But with no family to support, there was little enough for him to spend his money on. Tourney winnings, wages and card-winnings ended up making a tidy sum of gold.

“How long?” she asked, voice tense. She appeared apprehensive once more, shifting restlessly in the saddle.

“It wont last forever. I'm guessing you have some expensive habits. But we're far from destitute. It'll buy us passage and pay rent for a while, if our accommodations are more on the modest side. One gold coin can last a long time if you live like a commoner. And we've got a handful.”

Sansa continued her squirming, a sure sign that something was gnawing on her mind. His suspicions were confirmed moments later. 

“A little less then a handful now,” she said. 

Her voice was nothing more than a whisper, timid and soft. Her little body curled in on itself, as if she was trying to disappear. Too caught up in her reaction, it took him a moment to register what she'd said. 

“What do you mean?”

He could see her pulse picking up pace, her hands clenching and unclenching around the pommel. 

“I... I gave some away. Two, I think.”

Confusion gave way to realization. The farmers. He'd been surprised at her lack of protest. But apparently she'd blown straight past that, disobeying him instead. This would account for her odd behaviour last night. His hands constricted around the reins. He didn't notice until the horse came to a stop. The familiar gnawing sensation flooded his stomach and chest, urging him to do something, anything. Hit or kick or run. Normally, he didn't register these emotions, but simply barreled ahead and did exactly those things, relieving his anger in a wonderfully satisfying burst of power. The fact that he now had the ability to refrain did not put him in a better mood. 

“I apologize,” she said, her voice more controlled now, more even. “It was your money, and I had no right to take it. But neither did we have a claim to that horse. I only did what was right.”

“Oh aye,” he spat “You did, girl. Let's just hope that act of kindness don't end up getting us killed.”

Pressing his knees against the horse, they resumed walking. It seemed even more agitated, probably sensing it's riders moods. Horses were clever like that.

“What do you mean?” Sansa asked.

She wouldn't have realized, of course. It was stupid of him to think that she would. That Sansa had any conception of how rare gold dragons were. Most people went a lifetime without seeing two rubbed together. No one handed them out freely, not unless they had more than they could use. 

“How do you think that will look to those men? Two travelers, with few supplies and clothes barely worth the name, but with a few gold dragons to spare. We looked suspicious enough already.”

“But they don't know who we are,” Sansa protested.

“No, but should they run into soldiers, they'll have some tale to tell.”

Turning in the saddle once again, Sansa fixed him with a reproachful glare. 

“Did it ever occur to you that it's less likely they'll talk, now that we've given them money?”

Stupid Little Bird. He almost said so out loud. But apparently he was growing wiser in his old age, because he was able to restrain himself. If only just.

“If they should come across Joffrey's men, they might not be given the chance to keep silent. They might see the coins, and demand to know where they got them from. You think those farmers will risk hanging on your account?”

Sansa looked properly chastised. Turning back around, her head hung low, exposing her neck. The skin there was a pure white. 

“And even if they don't find it, giving us up might be the only way for those men to save their lives. Or at least to think they'll be saved. You know what soldiers are like, Little Bird. You know enough, at any rate. They might terrorize them, even if they don't believe they know anything.”

Sansa didn't have a response to that, and Sandor had nothing left to say, so they rode on in silence. They were getting close to Stonedance now, Sandor felt sure of it. And a good thing that was too. Though Sansa's ill-advised generosity might endanger them further, chances were that it would not amount to anything. Still, Sandor was rigid, shoulders tense, head swiveling this way and that. The horse mimicked his movements, it's ears twitching back and forth, clearly made tense by it's riders. It did no other harm then to tugg on the rains once in a while, and Sandor was glad of the horses' spirit. It seemed just as ready to run as he was. 

They passed through the glen and into the trees beyond. Dense spruce had been replaced by gnarled and misshapen pine and birch. It made for a more open landscape, with the sun reaching all the way down to the forest floor, chasing away moss, and allowing for grass to grow, as well as the few autumn flowers. There were more birds in this part of the forest, all of them calling to one another, or screeching in warning as they passed underneath. A magpie followed them for a while, jumping from branch to branch, peering at them with curious eyes, it's head cocked to one side. 

He kept his ears trained for any noise, much more cautious now than he'd been earlier in the day. It was just as well. The lack of any true obstacle, as well as Sansa, with her endless questions and fine body, had served to distract him. Now he was back on track. But between the birdsong and the horses loud snorting, he doubted he would be able to hear any soldiers until they were upon them. Sansa had begun to relax again, and joined in the song before he asked her to stop. He might have been harsher about it than he needed to be, and new that he'd feel badly about it soon. But she'd acted wrongly, and he wasn't prepared to let go of his indignation just yet. 

At long last Sansa spoke again.

“I am sorry, Sandor. Truly. Not for paying the farmers, but for placing us in danger. But... maybe we should not have taken the horse at all. They needed it, perhaps even more than us.”

He was about to respond when a noise caught his attention. It sounded like a rustling, far away and very faint. Perhaps a brook, or maybe an animal stomping through branches. Or maybe... 

“Keep quiet, Little Bird.”

Bringing the horse to a halt, ears pricked, he waited. The rustling persisted, but didn't appear to grow any closer. Sansa must have heard as well, for her face had grown deathly pale, the tips of her fingers digging painfully into his thigh. 

Leaning close, breath warm in his face, she whispered,

“Should we run?”

Mind whirring, Sandor tried to decide on what to do. They could spur the horse and ride away, as quickly as they could. But a horse would run more slowly with two riders than with one, even one as strong as theirs. Or they could keep still, hoping whatever was out there would pass them by. Finally deciding on the latter, he shook his head. If the sound came from men, they would be alerted all the sooner if they ran.

Time passed, but the sound did not. Sometimes it appeared closer, sometimes further away. He and Sansa, and even the horse, kept completely still. Suddenly the birch and pine trees seemed less inviting. There were open spaces everywhere, and few places to hide. Sansa had begun to shake, but her breathing was even and controlled. He noticed that she sometimes would look down at her boot, as if to reassure herself that the dagger was still there. At least she was prepared to fight. He felt a momentary sensation of pride at that, until he recalled what would likely happen if she did have to square off against a trained soldier. 

The sound was gradually changing, a soft and steady thudding being discernable as well. He wasn't entirely certain, but it could be horses... And they were growing closer. It now seemed as if it was coming from someplace behind them. As the thudding sounds grew, so did Sandor's certainty that they were, in fact, horses. More than one. And they seemed to be coming from the direction where he and Sansa had just passed. 

He had been careful not to leave to obvious tracks. But there were bound to be some broken and twisted branches, no matter how careful he'd been. Besides, it was difficult on a horse, with ground as soft as this. Looking behind him, he saw the deep hoof-prints in the dirt. 

That's when he heard the voice. Indistinct, still far away, but still unmistakably a voice. And someone eager at that. Acting out of instinct more than anything else, he picked Sansa up, and dropped her unceremoniously down on the ground. Vaulting off the horse a moment later, he quickly untethered the satchel from the saddle, before giving the horse a hard smack on it's rump. It neighed indignantly as shot off between the trees, stirrups floundering at it's side. 

Swinging the satchel over one shoulder, he threw Sansa over the other. She seemed confused, but went along without protest. They needed to hide, quickly, and Sandor didn't trust her not to make tracks. Erasing the one's they'd already made when landing, he headed in the opposite direction of the horse. 

They didn't have much time, so he decided on the first sizable bush they came across. He sat Sansa down, before lying on the ground, flat on his stomach. 

“We need to get under. But try not to break too many branches.”

She nodded, face pale but determined, and followed him to the ground. He went first, with Sansa crawling after. The bush did not have much space underneath, with gnarly branches poking his back and head. It took some wriggling, and his tunic and breeches became covered in dirt, but at least the leaves were dense, covering them both from sight. 

He could hear more voices now. They must have heard their own horse whinny, because the approaching men were galloping, shouting amongst each other. They could not be the finest soldiers in the King's service. From the noises they made, it sounded as if there was some disagreement. They didn't have a proper leader then. That was good. Sandor tried to make out how many they were, but it was impossible to tell. They were getting close though, nearing the spot where they'd left the horse. 

Peering out from under the leaves, he saw the first pair of horse-legs coming into sight. It was soon followed by others. Eight, if he'd counted right. Then the riders came into view. Sure enough, they were soldiers. Fully armored, the metal burnished with the kings colours, they stood out from between the foliage like a sore thumb. They looked somewhat bedraggled too as if they also had been out in the forest for weeks. 

Sansa was breathing fast beside him, every gulp of air sound like a shout to his ears. Taking her hand in his, he squeezed it gently, trying to reassure her. Peering back out from underneath the bush, he noted with relief at his plan seemed to have worked. The soldiers rode on, following the tracks of the horse, still talking and squabbling amongst each other. Useless fools. 

They ended up sleeping underneath the bush. The sun was already low on the sky, and neither of them felt like chancing running into the soldier's again. It was damp and cold, but at least they were safe. Sansa curled her back against him, and fell asleep quickly. He kept awake a good while longer, ears still trained for any sound. But the forest was silent, except for the birds. 

***

The next day found neither of them in a good mood. It had started to rain again. Hard. Despite the dense foliage, they were both drenched to the bone by the time they awoke. It was cold too. Sansa could not stop shivering, despite the blanket wrapped above her cloak. He supposed he should only be thankful she hadn't fallen ill yet. 

Crawling out from beneath the bush, they found the forest soaked. The drops fell in such amounts, it was difficult to see more than a few paces ahead, and the noise as water hit leaves made such a noise they even had trouble hearing each other. Not that they talked much.

The ground soon turned to mud beneath his feet, water seeping into his boots. He recalled that they had not eaten since the morning before last, and the cold and hunger made their progress slow. It was difficult not to curse his luck, having lost both a horse and two golden dragons in the span of two days. It had been a good horse too. Sandor had considered bringing it with them across the sea. Or else it would have fetched a fare price at the market in Stonedance. 

He was brought out of his thoughts by the sound of a bird singing it's warning. Muffled by the rain, it was difficult to tell which direction it had come from, but as he spun around in search of it, he found Sansa behind him on the path. She stood frozen, arms drawn tight across her belly, lips pale and quivering. She was not alone. 

Flanked on either side of her were two soldiers. He recognized them from last night, both muddied and bedraggled from several nights on the road. They made of a pitiful pair, mousy-haired and puny, the both of them. One was leering at him, the other at Sansa, a sour expression on his face. Regardless of their small statures, they kept their postures well, evidently knowing how to handle a sword. 

“Hound,” the closest one called out. 

Sandor dimly recalled having seen him around the Red Keep. His name was Lorry. Loraks. Something stupid like that. He was looking distinctly worried, though his sword-arm seemed steady enough. As did the dagger the other man was holding against Sansa's long, pale throat. 

“Come now, drop your sword. If you surrender peacefully, we'll not mistreat you along the way.”

Sandor laughed. Neither of the men seemed entirely convinced that holding Sansa hostage would be enough to make him comply. But if it wasn't, a false promise of good treatment would hardly stop him from cutting them both down on the spot. And by the Stranger, how he longed to do so. Hand gripping the sword-hilt, he imagined how they'd sound as they begged for mercy, the idiotic look of fright that overcame men about to die. 

But between them stood Sansa, scared and helpless, with a blade pressed against her lovely neck. Drawing his sword, he let it drop to the ground, raising his hands in surrender.


End file.
